


Assassin

by ivorytower



Series: Unity [2]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Warcraft - Freeform, unity, unityverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-11 23:25:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 83,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/804448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorytower/pseuds/ivorytower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The founding of Durotar, and lessons in history from the mouth of one who has been a part of it: Garona Halforcen</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Behold, Garona's backstory in living colour. The present-day of this fic is set after the Battle of Hyjal, but before Daelin Proudmoore's invasion of Kalimdor. I sincerely hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it. There is going to be some creative reinterpretation of Garona's backstory, and flat-out rewriting other parts of the canon.
> 
> Includes: Angst, sap, adorableness. A story told in flashbacks, there will be one-sided crushes and meaningful stares. For this part, and several other parts, **trigger warning** : child abuse, mentioned rape, character death.  
> Companion Fic To: Doomhammer

The sun shone down over Thrall, Warchief of the Horde, son of Durotan and Draka, and it was good. He tilted his face towards the sun, letting it warm him. Kalimdor seemed, in many ways, to be hotter than the land he'd come from, that of Lordaeron. This specific portion of Kalimdor was dry and a bit dusty, but the red-brown dirt was not sick. Far from it, it felt rich and untapped under Thrall's thick fingers, and the colour of it dulled the bright green of his skin to a near-brown. He smiled, and dusted his hands off.

"We be breakin' ground soon, mon?"

Thrall turned, and smiled broadly at Vol'jin. His friend and leader of the Darkspear tribe of trolls was barefoot: all of his people were, and his two-toed feet were covered in dust. Along his back were a brace of potions, prepared during last night's evening camp. After spending two weeks camping here, testing the soil, looking for water and consulting with the spirits, Vol'jin had thought it best to be prepared for any kind of emergency that might crop up. Thrall shook his head at his pessimism. The day felt auspicious. "Soon, yes. We're missing someone."

Vol'jin nodded, the stiff bristles of his bright red mohawk moving with the motion before he turned, looking over their group. Thousands of orcs and trolls waited, milling eagerly, looking towards their leaders in anticipation, but they were not alone: the tauren, their tall, broad allies, stood easily on the hot ground, speaking in low, melodious tones, nearly drowned out by the fast-talking goblins, who were only similar to the orcs superficially: along with longer ears and noses, they were short and discussed the possibility of building and explosions. Thrall's gaze fell to a specific group of orcs that were fussing over an old, blind orc, sitting where others were standing. He held his walking stick tightly with one hand, and his companion, an elderly and much-battered white wolf curled at his side.

"We should start soon," rumbled Cairne. "Or we will lose the blessing of the Earthmother. Now is the time."

"I know," Thrall said simply. "It's just that she said she'd be here. She knows how important this is."

Cairne chuckled. "Of course she does. She will also understand, then, if you must start without her."

Thrall nodded, though he couldn't help but feel a touch of disappointment. He turned to address his people, calling on the spirits to carry his words to them. "My friends. We have been through so much. We have, both individually and collectively, escaped from slavery and oppression. We have thrown off the despair, the hopelessness of our former lives and embraced new ones. Together, we have faced the Sea Witch, the centaur, the demons of the past. With each victory, we have grown stronger as a people… as a _family_. We have fought together at Hyjal--"

There was a soft gasp as blue runes formed in the air, spinning lazily. Thrall grinned broadly. The runes heralded the arrival of a slim, blonde woman, clad in white and purple robes. "Thrall, I'm so sorry I'm late--" She stopped abruptly, and Thrall's grin widened as the wave of heat hit her, stunning her mid-apology.

"It's quite alright, Jaina, we're still talking." He gestured, offering his hand to her. Jaina smiled back as she took it and squeezed it briefly, then took a place of honour to his right. He gathered his thoughts and continued. "We have fought at Hyjal, shoulder to shoulder with the humans and the elves, the dwarves and the gnomes. We faced the worst that the Burning Legion had to offer us and we stood fast, and thanks to those that have fallen, and those who still stand, we won. We were victorious. It is through these victories that we have earned the right to say that we are _free_. We are free of the burdens of the past. Today is a new day."

Those assembled clapped and cheered, some shouting battle cries, while others pumped fists in the air, or jumped up and down. The reactions weren't entirely universal, though. Some had distant looks in their eyes, as if thinking of something else. Others were watching Jaina closely, even as she warded herself against the heat. As Thrall looked over the crowd, he felt a chill. The spirits were warning him of something, of something hidden but not dangerous. He gripped the _Doomhammer_ , and glanced at Jaina. The human archmage seemed to have few concerns other than the heat.

_I need to move this along,_ Thrall decided. _Before the blessing of the spirits is lost._ He raised his weapon high. "And I will name this land after my honoured father, Chieftain Durotan of the Frostwolves. I feel that he would be happy to see his people here, on this threshold of a new life. I will call this land… Durotar!"

There was a roar of joy as he struck the ground with the _Doomhammer_ , throwing up dust and breaking it a little. From here, the first digging would be done, the first foundations laid. The goblins already had plans to dig for water and the spirits had agreed to this disturbance, this shifting of elements, to benefit all the people of the Horde. Jaina clapped and cheered, as did Vol'jin and Cairne. The warning from the spirits faded, and Thrall relaxed.

"Congratulations, Thrall," Jaina said happily. "Durotar will make a wonderful home for your people."

"Why don't you tell them that?" Thrall asked, his voice gently teasing. When Jaina blinked at him, he turned to the crowd again. "Our guest would like to make a speech!"

The crowd roared, and Thrall put a hand on Jaina's back, nudging her forward even as she protested, meeting her look of annoyance and slight panic with a grin. "I didn't have anything written, Thrall, I--"

"They don't know that," Thrall murmured, and called on the spirits so that people -- _his_ people -- could better hear her words. The feeling returned, crawling along Thrall's neck and shoulders, as if focusing on the fact that he was touching Jaina. _I wonder what's wrong,_ Thrall thought. Jaina managed to find her voice and Thrall chose to listen to her words instead of worrying about what -- or who -- was watching.

~ * ~

Thrall's back ached. His feet hurt. His fingers felt numb. His knees and thighs were screaming at him, and yet… he felt utterly elated. He had been tired before, after battle, after the hike through the Barrens to Ashenvale. Both of those events had been important, and this pain he felt was as a result of another worthwhile task: building his city.

No one was idle while Orgrimmar was being built. While Jaina had returned to Theramore and her own building project, Thrall was needed here, amongst his people, calling on the spirits to help them build, helping the other shamans. Often, Drek'thar would guide the younger shamans, scolding them and insisting on their full attention on the importance of this task.

At first, it had felt like there were nothing but disasters. Someone would hurt themselves, something would get dropped. It took time for Thrall to realize these were not, in fact, disasters, but normal things that happened during any major -- or minor -- project. Each day, or sometimes more than once, that crawling sensation would return. He would ask the spirits for help, and what they told him was in some ways both confusing and contradictory: the person watching him was dangerous but not a threat to him. It was someone whom he had seen before, but not as they were now. It was someone who hid from him, and yet wanted to speak to him. When he had asked what to do, they simply told him to open himself to possibilities.

_Very well, I will do so,_ Thrall thought. Normally, Thrall kept his campfire close to the others, wanting to be a part of his people and not feel like a remote, unapproachable Warchief. Tonight, he built his campfire far away from the others, just barely within sight of the main encampment. The spirits were quiet, and he sighed, throwing a little more wood into the fire.

As sparks flared up, he caught sight of someone. For a brief moment, he could see an orcish woman's face, her eyes slightly rounder than the female orcs he had come to know, a red marking down one cheek against dull green skin. Her clothing was dark, not quite black but a particularly dark shade of brown, and there were no studs or pieces of metal to catch the light. She wore weapons: two blades as long as her forearms in twin sheathes at her sides, and her manner of sitting suggested more, hidden underneath her clothing. She seemed at once both bulky and lithe. She felt muted, as if the spirits were reluctant to approach her, and even when she spoke, her voice was low, quiet and slightly rough, as if unused to speaking. "You are Thrall, son of Durotan. Present Warchief of the Horde."

"I am," Thrall said. "You've been watching me."

"I have been watching you for a long time," the woman replied. Thrall gestured for her to sit and, after a moment's hesitation, she did. The fire allowed Thrall to study her features in more detail and he found that while her eyes were grey, like Orgrim's, his departed friend's gaze had never been so luminous.

"I see," Thrall said. "Be welcome at my fire." The woman stared at him, as if the simple, traditional greeting was unfathomable to her. Thrall did not allow his pleasant expression to slip. "Please, tell me why you're here."

"I have information for you," the woman said. "I was present for your speech to the… Horde. You are wrong."

"What do you--"

"You believe the orcs have left behind their past and they have not. You cannot escape the sins of the past, no matter how much you try. They will always chase after you, like parasites on the back of an animal. Mannoroth may be gone, Archimonde slain, but there are still threats that remain. The Shadow Council remains. You must see the danger--"

"I know," Thrall said, and sighed. For a second time, the woman stared at him. "I appreciate the words of warning, but I am not… overly naive. I _want_ to leave behind the mistakes of the past. I _want_ to start a new life here, and we will. We will take this opportunity, as we turn the dirt and build our homes to rebuild our lives. The past will be part of us always, but so too will the future. We need to keep that in perspective."

The woman was silent. The fire crackled. Thrall waited, letting the spirits, once so vague, now speak to him at length. "I can tell you who they are. They can be killed."

"I know who they are, to a point," Thrall said gently. "The spirits speak to me. They warn me of their schemes and I can, for the most part, head them off at the proverbial pass."

"What else do the spirits tell you?"

"They tell me that I have spoken to you before. They tell me that you hid your true nature from myself, and others, including those that adopted you as their own." Thrall looked into her eyes, his own gaze earnest. "Akia of the Frostwolves."

The woman's flinch was almost too faint to see. "So," she said stiffly. "You figured it out."

"I did," Thrall said. "I wish you hadn't lied. The spirits know who you really are, Garona Halforcen."

"Well, then there is nothing left," the woman -- Akia, Garona -- said and moved to stand, shadows pooling around her.

"Wait," Thrall said, raising a hand. "What was your goal here?"

"The spirits do not tell you?" Garona asked, a hint of bitterness in her tone. "I would think that they know everything."

"I would prefer to hear it from you," Thrall said. "Please, sit down."

"I came here seeking to warn you of a threat that you already knew of," Garona said. "I came here to see if power had changed you."

"Has it?"

"Yes and no." Garona stared into the fire. "You have learned to think beyond yourself and grown in power and confidence since we last spoke personally, before your crusade to save the orcs. You have weathered hardship, pain, loss… death." At her words, Thrall felt a stab of pain: Grom, Orgrim and Tari, three people he had loved, three people who had loved him… three people who had died along the path to Durotar. "However, you are still idealistic, foolish, and overly-trusting." Her lips moved, the barest twitch of a smile. "You still take in strays, Farseer."

"Why warn me, if you feel like that?" Thrall asked. "Unless you see something in my many flaws that you feel is worth protecting?"

"You don't want my protection."

"What if I do?" Thrall pressed. "What if I want to know why Garona Halforcen has spent several years watching and waiting? What if I want to know why you've protected me from the shadows?"

"You--"

"I've noticed. It was vague, at first, but the occasions became more frequent over time. Of what interest am I to you?" Within the crackling flames of the fire, Thrall saw a small elemental and smiled. He reached in, letting the elemental heat wash over him, licking without biting. The fire elemental crackled and popped at his attention.

"I could have killed you just then," Garona noted, though her voice was soft. Not muted or subdued, as it was before, but quiet, as if not wanting to frighten the elemental away. "You took your eyes off of me."

"You won't kill me," Thrall said, his eyes still on the elemental. "It's not what you want."

"Then what do I want?"

"You want to belong." Thrall didn't need to look to know that Garona was shocked. "You want a place and you don't know how to find it. That's why you offered me information, as a bribe, or proof of your usefulness. What you have is not useful for that, so you don't know what to do next."

"Did the spirits tell you that, too?"

"No," Thrall said, and looked up at her. "I guessed, or rather, I _know_ , but I want to know even more than that."

Garona stood. "If you want to know… I will return. Build a fire like this, and I will return."

Thrall nodded, smiling. "Wonderful, I look forward--" His fireside was empty. He sighed. "--to it."

Snowsong wiggled her way out of his bedroll and nuzzled at his side. Thrall withdrew a hand from the fire to pet her. "Well, that was very… odd." The frostwolf whined in agreement, and let her head rest against his knee. He ran his fingers over her fur, thinking hard. _I'm going to have any number of awfully lonely nights… but I suspect this will be worth it._ Snowsong, sensing his thoughts, gave him a rather sardonic look in reply, reminding him that he would not be alone at all. He sighed again.

~ * ~

Despite what Garona had told him, Thrall remained close to his people for the next two weeks. It was not out of dislike or mistrust, but instead because he himself needed their support. Progress was slowing as it took time to gather more materials, and people began to come to Thrall with problems or disputes regarding the placement of certain buildings.

_I'm only a Warchief and a shaman,_ Thrall thought. _I'm not a city planner or an architect._ He sighed. _I wonder if Jaina is having this much difficulty with Theramore._ Thrall felt hot, sticky and dirty, and with a feeling of frustration, wandered off towards the ocean. The Great Sea lapped at the shores of Durotar, and he couldn't help but mistrust it. His experience with sailing -- first, last and, he hoped, only -- had not been pleasant, and the ocean, as cool and tempting as it looked, set his teeth on edge, and a feeling of apprehension grew as he approached it, a crawling sensation--

Thrall knelt at the water's edge, letting the waves push against his knees. "Garona."

"Orcs hate to sail," Garona said, walking towards the water's edge, her feet leaving only the faintest of imprints in the red sand. She stood a little ways away from him. "Mostly because the ocean was trying to kill them."

"That sounds like paranoia," Thrall said, and edged towards the water. "It was Grom's idea to sail."

"Grommash Hellscream was always a hot-headed idiot," Garona noted, and Thrall frowned. "The Devouring Sea was aptly named."

"…things are named after what they are," Thrall said, recalling an old childhood saying. "What gave it its power?"

"A combination of things." Garona walked the water's edge, her black boots getting neither wet nor dirty. "There were sea monsters, creatures that resembled the mountain gronn, but were capable of breathing in the water and lived in the darkest of sea caves. The ogres would hunt them, sometimes, on their huge fishing vessels. There were other creatures as well, massive sea serpents, some were claimed to be as long as the world itself. The ocean itself was rarely ever as calm and stable as this by the shores." She gestured in the direction of the Maelstrom. "Imagine the Darkspear's former home, but all the time. Few dared tame the seas. The Warsong had an island stronghold at some point or another, and then… there were the Stormreavers."

"Gul'dan's clan," Thrall said.

"Yes." Garona bent down and let the water lap into her hand, cupping it for a moment. "This world is so rich, the water so clean and pure. On Draenor, this would have destroyed my hand, burned it. If you lived in the wrong place, the sky rained acid. The water drew blood. Gul'dan and the Stormreavers earned their name by destroying a storm that would have destroyed an orc settlement. It was said to have rained for weeks, but even then, the acid rains were less dangerous than the storm."

"They say?" Thrall asked quietly. Water elementals were lapping onto the shore, eager for his attention. Garona frowned.

"I would not have experienced it personally. I was not yet… born."

"But you know quite a bit about Draenor," Thrall observed, holding his cupped hands out to the elementals.

"Before the Dark Portal opened, I had traveled all over the orc lands. I delivered messages and gathered intelligence."

"Was it something you enjoyed doing?" Thrall asked, glancing over at her. She let the water run out of her hands.

"In a sense. Draenor was dangerous. It wasn't only the rains, it was the creatures, the plants… the people. Everything was another fight for survival."

"Orcs prefer to live hard lives," Thrall said. "To work hard and reap greater rewards."

Garona snorted. "Spoken like someone who's never failed to survive that so-called preferred hard life."

Thrall opened his mouth to object, and stopped. _The people who spoke of such a life… Orgrim, and Grom. They were warriors and chieftains. Perhaps they didn't know…_ "You could tell me about it."

"You said that before."

"I meant it before."

"Very well." Garona gestured, indicating a pair of boulders. Thrall nodded, and gently informed the elementals that he would be moving, and if they would be so kind as to follow. Thrall's feet sank into the sand, leaving large footprints behind, and Garona's light step kept an easy pace. She moved to sit on top of one of the boulders, and Thrall sat next to her. "Where would you like me to begin?"

"The beginning, if you don't mind," Thrall said. Garona looked out over the ocean.

"Very well," she said again. "My first memories are relatively dim. From what I understand, this is common with children, though I remember more than most. Those memories are precious, a gift. I will start there. My mother's name was Zaratha. She was a priestess of the Light, and a prisoner of Gul'dan."

Thrall frowned. "I thought your mother was human?"

"No, she was not," Garona replied. "She was an Eredar. You have seen them before, Archimonde was one."

"How is that possible?" Thrall asked. "They are demons."

"To some, so are orcs," Garona observed darkly, and began.

~ * ~

"Tell me about it," Garona insisted, curling up on her bed. If she moved just the right way, the splinters on the roughhewn bench wouldn't poke into her, and she tucked the ragged blanket around her. Her mother gazed down at her. Her eyes were white, and even as she smiled, her gaze was sad.

"Once, long ago, the mothers and fathers of my people lived on Erdun. It was a moon that orbited around the planet Argus. Argus had a surface of swirling gas that stretched farther than anyone could ever travel through." Her mother shifted, and Garona settled her head more carefully against her lap. She could see the curve of her mother's tail off to the side, moving slightly as if keeping rhythm. "On Erdun, we depended on magic for much of our lives. Everything that could be done was done with magic, and our leaders were all powerful mages. A trinity, Velen, Archimonde and Kil'jaeden."

Garona felt her mother tremble as she spoke the names, and curled in closer, hugging her. Her mother's pale blue fingers stroked at her hair. "It came to pass that demons spoke to our people. They are dark and terrible creatures, _akia_ , the corrupters of minds and souls. They… corrupted two of our leaders, tempted them with power. There were already very powerful, but they became greedy… The Light granted Velen a vision, showing him the corruption of his brothers. There was a war… a terrible, terrible war. Many joined Archimonde and Kil'jaeden, coveting this power for themselves. Finally, Archimonde and Kil'jaeden learned how to harness the power of Argus into a weapon… and that ended the rebellion. So many died, or were forcibly corrupted. A tiny number were able to escape, only a few thousand. We escaped on a great, magical vessel that was capable of creating portals to other worlds. We ran. We ran for such a long time, flitting from world to world… we were afraid. Kil'jaeden had vowed to chase Velen, to find him and wreak his vengeance upon him."

"Why did he hate him so much?" Garona asked. Her mother shook her head.

"Once, Velen and Kil'jaeden cared for each other very deeply, beloved in each others' sight. Kil'jaeden wanted Velen to join them, and Velen refused. That love turned to bitter hate. We still fear Kil'jaeden's wrath." She sighed. "We came to this world about two hundred years ago. The great ship was… failing. We could not repair it, there was nothing… we did not have as much power as we had on Erdun. We too had drawn power from Argus. We did whatever we could to survive, but we came across the Draenei, suffering and hiding from the orcs. We did what we could to help them, but I…"

"Mama…"

"I was captured by Gul'dan and brought here. You were born not all that long afterwards. Within a year. After you were born, we came to live in this cell."

Garona shivered. "He's a monster."

"Yes."

"Am I a monster?"

"Oh… my _akia_ …" Her mother lift her into her lap and held her tightly. "No, no. It's not your fault. It will never be your fault." She kissed the top of Garona's head. "The Light blesses you and keeps you safe."

Garona began to cry, clinging to her mother. "It's dark. It's so dark."

"Let the Light guide you and you will never be in darkness, my daughter." Garona clung to her mother's ragged, thin robes, and Zaratha rocked her until she fell asleep.

When Garona woke, it was because her mother was shaking her lightly, the look on her face urgent and frightened. "Mama?"

" _Akia_ , you need to get up and come with me right away. Hurry now."

Garona nodded and hopped off of the bench. She turned to grab the blanket, and her mother stopped her, shaking her head once. Her mother took her hand and moved to the door of their cell. She pushed the door open, looked both ways and then hurried out the door. Her mother's hooves clicked rapidly as she ran, and Garona struggled to keep up.

_Why is Mama scared? Where are we going?_ She knew better than to speak the questions aloud. The halls of this place, this temple… there were too many shadows. _Mama said to let the Light guide me--_

"Zaratha."

Garona's mother made a noise, one of fear and anger. Striding out of the shadows was an orc, clad in robes so dark a purple as to be nearly black, inscribed with runes. Looking at them made Garona feel sick and she clung to her mother in fear.

"Gul'dan," Zaratha said, her voice heavy with loathing but laced with fear.

"Did you think you could escape?" Gul'dan demanded, his voice harsh and grating against Garona's ears after listening to her mother for so long. "Did you think I would not know of your foolish, fruitless schemes?"

"I won't let you take her from me!" Zaratha cried. "I won't let you make her like _you_!"

Garona cried out in fear. _I don't want to be a monster!_

"You don't have a choice," Gul'dan said, laughing. "Doesn't your so-called Light have some kind of policy against protecting mutant freaks?"

"She is your daughter too!" Zaratha put a hand on her Garona's head, whispering a plea to the Light to protect her daughter. "Doesn't that mean anything to--" Zaratha's voice cut off with a terrible, sick cry as she fell and the scent of her burning flesh filled Garona's nose.

"Mama! Mama!"

Gul'dan lunged forward, grabbing Garona's wrist and hauling her to him. "She's dead, and her Light is just a story," he said. "Come along."

Garona twisted in his grip, taking one last look at her mother's body before she was pulled away, and the darkness seemed to consume it.

"Where is your Light now, Eredar?" Gul'dan demanded of the darkness. "Where is your Light now?"

~ * ~

"I'm sorry," Thrall said, feeling woefully inadequate. Garona's gaze hadn't left the ocean.

"You would be the first," she replied quietly. "Gul'dan wasn't. For the first time since my birth I was permitted to walk around, to explore the Black Temple of Karabor, and all I wanted to do was lose myself in the shadows. There was no light in that place. No joy. No hope."

Thrall closed his eyes and remembered Durnholde. "How did you survive?"

"Gul'dan may have determined he was going to use me, but he had no concept of what to do with me. He left me to my own devices and I… hid. I would steal food, blankets… books. I'm sure you've noticed that orcs rarely write anything down."

"I have," Thrall admitted. "Though the Frostwolves showed me that orcs did have a written language."

"There are two reasons why they tend not to write much. The first is simple practicality. On Draenor, there was no paper. The process of paper-making is… magic, in its own way. There simply weren't enough resources to make wood-pulp paper, so they used other things. There was reed-paper, which doesn't last as long, or more often, markings were written on thin-scraped hide. Most of the time, the hide was from animals."

" _Most_ of the time?" Thrall asked, with just a hint of alarm. Garona barked out a laugh.

"Some didn't treat the draenei like they were people. Or even other orcs."

"Draenei?"

"Ah, yes, part of our not-so-proud heritage." Garona smirked. When Thrall frowned at her, she elaborated. "The draenei, along with the ogres, gronn, arakkoa and dragons, were the other races of Draenor. At some point or another, the orcs were at war with all of them. Sometimes, like with the ogres, the orcs could strike bargains. Ogres even began to lead clans of orcs and ogres together, but for the most part… the orcs were particularly engaged with the draenei. Where there were orcs there were almost always draenei, so they competed for land and resources. The orcs had almost entirely wiped the draenei out by the time my mother was captured."

"Drek'thar and Orgrim never mentioned this."

"They might not have thought to do so. It was simply a way of life, to defend themselves. The draenei raided orc settlements. Sometimes they'd strip a farm of everything and then burn down the homes. Sometimes the orcs would do the same in return."

"It seems very… violent."

"That's your hard life," Garona said flatly. "That's your resilience through adversity. Durotar isn't sick. Kalimdor isn't sick. This? The heat and the dust? Are merely discomforting. The battle to get here with the quillboar and the centaur? Those things are closer to what it was like… but here, there's plenty of _other_ fertile land. If one side loses, they can go elsewhere. On Draenor, losing a fight over your land means you could starve."

"We'll still starve if we can't make our home here," Thrall said. "We've given everything we can, and there's no going back. We make ourselves here or the land will break us. We aren't just a clan, or a family. We're a Horde. We have a lot more people to support… and a lot more people to work at it, to bring their expertise together to create a home. A legacy."

"So you do," Garona said and slipped from her perch. "It just means you're going to have to fight for it."

Thrall sighed as Garona slipped away, like smoke on the wind. "But we _have_ fought for it." The elemental in his lap burbled at him. "Haven't we?"


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garona's tale continues, bringing with it more questions and doubts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And here's the next part! Sadly, this is all I have written in advance, so other updates will come slowly. Enjoy!_
> 
> Includes: Angst, sap, adorableness. A story told in flashbacks, there will be one-sided crushes and meaningful stares. For this part, and several other parts, **trigger warning** : child abuse, mentioned rape, character death.

The sun was setting over the coast, spreading red light over the ocean's surface. Thrall had found this sight alarming, but Jaina had assured him that it was at dawn that you needed to worry. At dusk, this was a good sign. Thrall sat back on a piece of driftwood, watching Jaina walk along the beach. Where he was cautious of the water, Jaina seemed utterly fearless, the water coming up to her ankles as the tide came in. Each step was taken deliberately to press into the sand so that the tide could catch there, and other things, little creatures.

_Fascinating,_ Thrall thought as he watched her. "Jaina?"

"Yes?" the human sorceress said as she walked slowly and carefully, her hands tugging her robes up so that her calves were exposed, dusted with wet sand. Thrall's eyes were drawn to them, noting how the shoreline of Dustwallow Marsh was grey, while Durotar's was red. It took him a moment to gather his thoughts again.

"What were humans like before the orcs came?"

Jaina's steps paused. "Well… you have to keep in mind that I was born after the First War started, but… you know, I'm not sure what you mean."

"When Drek'thar and Orgrim used to tell me stories, they never mentioned that before the invasion, the orcs had been at war with people on Draenor. With the draenei."

"I've heard of the draenei," Jaina said, startling Thrall. "Some of them wandered through during the periods of time the Dark Portal was open. There was relatively limited interaction, and they took up homes in the Swamp of Sorrows and left everyone alone. Archmage Khadgar's treatise of Nethergarde has more details. I'd… have to get another copy. Somehow. If there's anything left of the world."

"I'm sorry, Jaina," Thrall said gently. "It was thoughtless of me."

"No, it's fine." Jaina took a deep breath. "How much do you know about human history?"

"I've read histories about Lordaeron, about their great victories over the dwarves, the elves... and of course, the orcs." Thrall smiled a little. "It was a very specific point of view, and I've come to learn that history is written by the victor, and it's possible that it's biased. I believe that you'll give me a fairer evaluation."

Jaina smiled back. "Thank you, and I'll certainly try to give you one." Jaina toed at the sand. "It varied from nation to nation. The face of the Eastern Kingdoms have changed so much. The borders were redrawn dozens of times. Human history has recordings that date back roughly six thousand years, from the first oral legends of Thoradin of Arathor and the troll wars. Humans and elves united to fight off the trolls, and it was for this reason that elves taught humans how to use magic. Humans and elves didn't always get along, though. There was professional rivalry and a certain amount of… being patronizing towards a younger, lesser race. Not all elves were like this, of course. There was conflict with the dwarves near Khaz Modan, not to mention their own history of civil war. Even the gnomes have had problems."

"But not the humans?" Thrall asked curiously. Jaina laughed softly.

"Depending on your perspective, we were the _worst_. Almost every human nation on Azeroth was founded because someone felt like they couldn't live under the house and rules of another, and of course, this tended to be met by an… insistence that they return. There were also internal conflicts, expansionism… Lordaeron went through a period of about five hundred years where they gobbled up every spare piece of land not strictly controlled by another nation… and then started in on the ones that were. There's a reason why there are elven lodges, dwarves ports and mountain-keeps and two other nations completely encompassed by Lordaeron."

"That sounds… ambitious," Thrall ventured. "But they were defeated, weren't they?"

"Not as such," Jaina replied, toeing at the sand. "As the story goes, the other nations got together and essentially _bribed_ Queen Calilia to sue for peace. Lordaeron lost very little in the bargain, and it created a number of trade agreements that… until the Scourge came… were still being honoured. That was two or three generations ago."

Thrall's head swam. "So, the Menethils…"

"That was their line, yes, there were other kings before them." Jaina looked out towards the ocean, her expression one of pain. "The righteous conquest of kings is in their blood, even if King Terenas himself wasn't a soldier. His battlefield was political. He… will be missed."

"What of your own people?" Thrall asked, hoping to improve her mood. "Of Kul Tiras?"

Jaina smiled. "Kul Tiras was founded by pirates. The Proudmoore line has… meandered somewhat, but stayed firm since the founding. I think our laws help. Once the islands were settled, we did do a fair bit of coastal raiding… as Lordaeron is on land, we are by sea."

"Pirates?" Thrall asked, disbelievingly. "You're not…"

"I wanted to be Dread Pirate Jaina when I was young," she replied, her smile growing a little wider. "Of course, due to other talents I became a mage… but there's always a little pirate in a Proudmoore."

"I can hardly believe--" The gun in Jaina's hand made Thrall's eyes widen and he threw himself back, off of the driftwood. The journey was short and he grunted as his back hit the sand. _Why didn't the spirits warn me?!_

"Thrall, it was just a demonstration," Jaina chided. "Now you know I can still surprise you."

"I've no doubt of that," Thrall said ruefully, and looked up at the human woman who offered her hand. Her grip was firm as she helped him up. "You know, Grom once described you as weak."

"Did he?" Jaina said, and kept a hold of his hand, urging him to walk down the beach with her. Thrall followed. "I hope you've learned better by now."

"…I learned better shortly after I saw how your forces had reinforced Stonetalon pass," Thrall said ruefully. "Perhaps I can believe you're descended from pirates."

"Thank you." Her voice was light with amusement. "Going back to what this person told you… it bothers you that the orcs were at war with the draenei."

"It does," Thrall confessed. "I want my people to move past a history of bloodshed, but… what if there isn't anything else?"

"Why can't there be?" Jaina asked, startling Thrall again. She squeezed his hand. "My family had a lot of pirates in it… but they also had merchants, naval officers, marines… my grandfather was a tailor. He made beautiful women's dresses and caught my grandmother's eye. I don't think I've ever seen her _wear_ a dress, she found them inconvenient when climbing in rigging. Terenas Menethil wasn't about to go out and conquer other nations, but he was _respected_. Adamant Wrynn won the throne of Azeroth by beating out a fellow noble, but started putting into place useful policies that would help heal Stormwind's problems, things that were carried on by his son Llane. History _is_ important, history _can_ repeat itself, but that doesn't mean we're ruled by it. Otherwise humans would still live in caves. You _believe_ in your people, Thrall. I've seen it. Yes, your people had a violent history. War will always be important to you. That doesn't mean that you can't find ways to live that are peaceful. That doesn't mean you can't have friends and allies."

Thrall smiled. "We've come a long way since the Oracle."

"Ashenvale and Hyjal," Jaina replied, smiling back. "And we still have a long way to go."

"Thank you, Jaina," Thrall said, squeezing her hand gently. "You do still surprise me, or at least… help me gain perspective."

"I always will," Jaina promised. "Now… take off your boots, we're going wading."

"We're what?" Thrall said, his eyes widening with alarm. Jaina grinned.

"Wading. The water isn't going to play in itself."

"Jaina, it's nightfall. It's _cold_."

"Coward," Jaina teased. She dropped his hand and headed towards the water. Thrall screwed up his face -- and his courage -- and stripped his boots off.

"I am not." He rolled up his trousers and walked with determination in after her, getting first his feet wet, then his ankles. Teasingly, Jaina danced just out of range, tugging her robes higher. "You keep running away."

"All the better to surprise you," Jaina said, and with a quick gesture, she scooped up water and threw it into his face. The water tasted of salt and caused Thrall to sputter and make a face. He gave her a hard look, reached down and threw a handful back, and was rewarded with laughter and another handful of water in the face.

The moons rose, observing the Warchief of the Horde and the Lady Archmage splashing each other like children, laughter ringing out over the ocean.

~ * ~

"One… two… three! Heave!" cried one of the goblins. Thrall's shoulder muscles bunched as he lifted, helping three other orcs raise a section of wall. It went up with relatively little effort, and swiftly two of the trolls lashed the wall in place. Thrall smiled, and nodded to those who offered him water.

The meetings with Jaina had inspired him to throw himself into this work, to building a city that his people would be proud of, and the progress became easier. Consulting with others, like Gazlowe, had helped resolve the building conflicts, and each day he found something that his friends could help him with. Vol'jin had introduced him to Shandel'zare and Jes'rimmon, trusted members of the Darkspear that he could afford to spare, as Cairne did with Nara, a young, bright druid with great insight into the surrounding area.

_Chieftains of old would consult with their advisors for certain courses of action,_ Thrall thought, ducking into the completed part of Grommash Hold. The builders had insisted that Thrall's personal chambers be finished first, though 'finished' was overstating it somewhat: Thrall had moved his bedroll inside, offering his tent back to those who still needed to camp, and there was a wash bucket, already filled with water and a bit of soap. He stripped down, thanking the spirits for clean water and began to wash. _If I am to lead my people --_ all _of my people -- I need to know what it is that they want and what they need._ He reached for his sponge to dip it into the water and frowned when he found it missing.

"Blackhand had advisors. Gul'dan, and the other chieftains. He did what Gul'dan wanted. He was a puppet and a fool."

Thrall resisted the urge to twist, and instead sat calmly as he felt the brush of a wet sponge against his shoulders. "I'm naked."

"You are."

"Couldn't you knock?"

"You knew I was here."

"That's not the point." Thrall sighed. "I became distracted last time. You were telling me how you survived."

"I survived by hiding and stealing." Garona ran the sponge down Thrall's back. "The shadows were my only refuge. Of course, Gul'dan caught me. He found out I had been stealing books and teaching myself how to read."

"Did he punish you?"

"No," Garona replied. "He began to teach me. He was not patient. He did not suffer failure well. Occasionally he would remark on my ability to pick things up, but for the most part…"

"It's like throwing strips of beef to a starving animal," Thrall said quietly. "Just enough to keep them going, not enough to nourish them. Just enough that you always want more."

Garona's hand stilled for a moment. "Yes. Blackmoore?"

"Blackmoore," Thrall confirmed, his voice a low snarl. "He did something similar to me."

Garona brushed the sponge down his back. "They were of a kind, I think." She pauses. "I had almost gotten used to it when things changed."

"What happened?"

"Draenor had four seasons, all rather hopefully named. Awakening, Growing, Reaping and Resting, corresponding to Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter here. During the height of the Growing season, orcs would travel from all over to come to Oshu'gun, the Spirit Mountain. In times of war, Oshu'gun was strictly neutral and a place where people could negotiate trade agreements between clans, find mates, see old friends, show off their skills or just compete. This gathering was performed even in the worst times because…" She worked down his back, bumping a little over the scars. "Because we were called there. Oshu'gun was the home of our ancestors. We wanted to go back there to visit them. It meant something to us. Something more than fighting. Even Gul'dan would not violate the sanctity of it, and even he felt the need to return there once a year. He decided that he wouldn't leave me while everyone else was traveling, so he took me with him."

"That sounds like something worth remembering."

"It's something I'll never forget."

~ * ~

_It's as if the whole world is here._

Garona peeked around Gul'dan's legs as his robes flapped in the breeze. She gazed down at the crowd of orcs, and in truth, it was more people than she'd ever seen before: thousands upon thousands of orcs gathered around the base of Oshu'gun. Flags and standards moved in the occasional wind, but far more often they were carried by representatives of each clan.

Gul'dan stood at the head of his clan, staring down from atop a small hill. Already, many clans were camped out and greetings were exchanged between friends that had been long out of one another's company.

"We set up camp there," Gul'dan said, indicating a specific spot, empty in a way that seemed to indicate the mountain itself was waiting for them. Several of the Stormreaver peons immediately began to set up the camp, building the Chieftain's tent with great speed before Garona's very eyes. No matter how large that tent would be, though, it was overshadowed by the great, crystal mountain. It shimmered invitingly in the sun's light.

"It's so big," Garona murmured unbidden.

Gul'dan grunted, and nodded in agreement. "The Blade's Edge Mountain range or the Hand of Gul'dan may come close to its height, but neither share its significance. This is where the ancestors reside."

"Everyone's ancestors?" Garona asked her eyes wide. "Where do they all fit?"

"The ancestors live here without form or substance until they are called upon," Gul'dan said with a frown. "There is enough room for all the orcs that have ever been and ever will be."

"All the… oh." Garona bowed her head.

"Go, look around," Gul'dan commanded. "But do not be seen. Return by sundown."

"Yes, Gul'dan," Garona replied. She scrambled off, moving into the shadows of the piles of furs. One of the clans, the Quickdraw, prided themselves on their hunting prowess and traded their excess goods for roots and herbs collected by the other clans. She pressed her back against the clefthoof and talbuk furs, careful not to shift them. On hands and knees she crawled past them, waiting until eyes were averted to move on. In some places, the shadows were longer than others. These were easier to hide in, to hide her hands and face. Her hair was short, bound back in little pigtails, and while Gul'dan had wanted to shave her head bald, he had lost track of the idea.

_Warriors can be bald. You are not one._

Garona's eyes narrowed as she slid between two barrels of ale. The scent was sharp, like nothing she could remember from Karabor. People moved differently here as well: in Karabor, many walked with slumped shoulders, oppressed by the darkness of the temple, even as it hid her from their gaze. Here, under the sun's baleful glare, men and women alike stood straight-backed and proud, milling around as they smiled and laughed. Sometimes, they would touch, embracing each other when they met. Other times, they would clasp arms, squeezing briefly before letting go.

_No one does that in Karabor,_ Garona thought, trying to imagine Gul'dan gripping the arm of Teron Gorefiend as a friendly greeting and failed. The warlocks and warriors that lived in Karabor walked by each other in sullen silence, avoiding each others' gaze. They didn't want to talk, or touch. Here, it seemed, things were different.

Garona followed people around, listening as they spoke. In many cases, it seemed as if some of those here had not seen the people they were greeting in many cycles of the great, blue moon, so they were making up for lost time. She heard forms of address. Brother. Sister. Mate. Mother. _Father_.

A great warrior, clad in black metal armour, hugged his son close, despite the fact his son was nearly a warrior grown himself. She heard the words spoke over and over again. _Father. Papa. Popo. Dad. Daddy. Dada. Da._ It was spoken by men and women both, some old, some young. This was always met with joy, with pride.

_Is that what I'm supposed to do?_ She remembered her mother's last words, and the way Gul'dan always frowned when he saw her. _Is that what he's waiting for?_ She hid in the shadows, pondering. Around her, the crowds changed, dividing up as the great meal began.

Here and there were great bonfires, built high and surrounded by large stones and piles of furs. Men sat around them, talking animatedly about various topics -- hunting, fishing, mating, the weather, the herds -- while women brought them drinks and more food, smiling and showing off their tusks and the curves of their hips. Some of the men smiled back, including one with his hair tied in long braids. His companion nudged at him teasingly. Garona's eyes fell to him, and they widened with shock.

This warrior was young, but his face was kind and gentle, unlike anything she'd ever seen before. He wore bone and wood ornaments carved in the shape of wolves. There was something about his eyes that drew her in, like warm arms. She moved in closer to get a better look. She could follow his gaze to a pair of orcs, one male and one female, smiling at each other hugely.

"There you are," Gul'dan muttered. "What did I tell you?"

"They're smiling," Garona said, and the wind seemed to pick up her voice and carry it. The conversations seemed to die abruptly as everyone turned to stare at her, and then past her at Gul'dan.

"They're smiling because they're being foolish," Gul'dan said sharply. "Do not act so foolishly when you are grown."

_Here's my chance,_ Garona thought. "But, Fa--"

Immediately, Gul'dan reacted, striking her across the cheek to silence her. Garona's eyes began to sting with tears, and she desperately gripped at her control, remembering her mother's warnings about crying. Her hand came to her cheek, covering the mark.

"Come, Garona," Gul'dan barked. He turned, gesturing for her to follow and she did. When she was only a handful of steps from the tent, Gul'dan grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her inside. She made another tiny, startled noise and scrambled to hurry. This didn't seem to satisfy Gul'dan, and he shoved her to the ground. "Never!"

"Wh-what?"

"Never speak that word of me!" He lunged at her and grabbed her, shaking her hard. Her teeth closed as her head snapped back. "Do not ever use that word! I am _not_ your father! I am Gul'dan, or Master. You are not worthy of having a father. You're a monster, a freak."

"But Mother said--"

Gul'dan slapped her. "Your mother is dead, and she was a fool. She died defending someone so worthless as you. You were her burden!"

Garona whimpered, and the tears came more readily. This only enraged Gul'dan as he brought his hand back to strike her again.

~ * ~

"I'm sorry," Thrall said softly. Garona's voice had remained steady throughout, her hands gentle. The water felt colder.

"I was permitted to go out the next day, after I'd recovered, but I didn't enjoy it," Garona said. "There were tournaments, mating displays... but it didn't matter. I felt as though I'd been betrayed, in a way. Those people had all been happy. They made me believe I could be happy. Especially..." The sponge stopped.

"Especially?"

"Durotan. He was the one with the kind eyes." Garona continued. "I would meet him again, several times. I would watch him more."

"It wasn't their fault that Gul'dan acted that way," Thrall said. Garona sighed.

"I know, Thrall--"

Thrall twisted around to look at her. "It wasn't yours either," Thrall insisted. "Gul'dan was wrong. You aren't--"

The sponge lay to the side of Thrall's bath, and Garona was gone. Thrall sighed, groaned at the feeling in his back, and retrieved the sponge to finish bathing.

~ * ~

Vol'jin's fire was swelteringly hot, and Thrall's body prickled with heat and sweat. He wore nothing but the briefest of loin cloths and his hair had been slicked back and oiled by several of the troll women, then braided tightly. They'd chuckled over its texture and length, tugging teasingly at his beard until Thrall flushed. Then they'd left as swiftly as they'd come like a flock of birds.

"Thank you for joinin' me," Vol'jin said, collecting up a jar of herbs. He sprinkled them onto the fire, and the smoke changed colour. Thrall let his gaze fall on the fire, neither concentrating nor thinking of anything in particular. He inhaled deeply.

"You're welcome, I'm always happy to participate in the rituals of my people." He smiled at Vol'jin and the witch doctor smiled back. "There was... something I wanted to ask of you, though."

"I'm always happy to be listenin' to my Warchief," Vol'jin replied, and let the heavily scented smoke enter his lungs. His wiry chest swelled, showing off the paint marks and tattoos that whorled around his pectorals. Vol'jin too wore little more than a loincloth, and his red hair was stiff and bristling, ornamented with beads made of glass, shells and bones.

Thrall did his best to keep his mind open, but his worries swirled in like mist on the wind. "I wanted to ask you about your father."

"Sen'jin," Vol'jin murmured, the easy, open expression on his face becoming closed and sad. "He woulda liked Durotar, I think."

"I believe that too, but I meant on a... more personal level." Thrall sighed. "I never knew my parents. I'm often told that they would be proud of me."

"You be doubtin' that?"

"Not exactly, but... I've met someone whose... father... didn't love her. He treated her poorly, as poorly as Blackmoore treated me, but it was worse for her in many ways. I never believed Blackmoore was my father. He never mocked the sacrifices that my parents made. I remember..." Thrall's expression crinkled with grief. "Tari's parents loved her, even though they were often afraid. What if not everyone's parents does?"

"They don't," Vol'jin said. "Thrall, th' truth of the matter is, parents are people too. Some people be hateful. Some people be cruel. Some parents hurt their children. Some don't. Dependin' on where you be and who you ask, most people don't."

"Did your father?"

"Sometimes. I was spanked for doin' stupid things. Sometimes, we got hit if we spoke poorly of the Sea Witch. Darkspear parents were afraid. Sometimes, people hit their kids when they be afraid."

"Afraid of what?"

"Afraid of lots of things. The Sea Witch. Afraid of change. Afraid of what they see in their kids that be a reflection of themselves."

"...a reflection of themselves?" Thrall's skin crawled, thinking of Blackmoore.

"Sure." Vol'jin met his gaze over the fire. "Kids pick up things from their parents. Kids learn before they can talk. Before they can walk. When they still be whelps. They learn faces and voices, they learn what words to speak. My Da, he be pickin' up heavy things an' swearin'. I do it, when I'm just a whelp, an' I get hit. My Da, he says, 'don't be sayin' that, it's rude'. I says, 'but you be sayin' it all the time, why can't I?'." Vol'jin chuckled. "He hit me again. But he be watchin' his back before he be pickin' things up."

"He set an example," Thrall said. "But... how do you escape that?"

"By rejectin' it," Vol'jin said. "When you be growin' up, your parents be teachin' you things. My Da, he hit me so I don't be swearin' where someone can hear me, but he teach me lots of other things. He teach me to brew a potion, to hunt. To watch for the way the weather changes. To talk to the loa and share a fire. I didn't have to be a witch doctor. I coulda been a hunter. I coulda joined the Sea Witch. She took trolls as priests, too. My Da taught me to fear her, but also to hate her. I coulda decided my Da was weak, that I could do more with the Sea Witch."

"But you didn't," Thrall said. "Why?"

"Because when you be growin' up, there be a lot more than jus' your parents teachin' you things. You get friends, you get teachers. You get life. It teaches you too. You get to look around and say, 'what do I believe?'. Your friend, her Da hate her. He treat her bad. But her Da isn't the only one who be teachin' her, I think."

"No, she spoke of her mother," Thrall said. "She was a good woman, and taught her other things. She also said... she learned from observing others. Though she felt that those teachers had betrayed her, because her own life was so different. I told her that it wasn't their fault, but it wasn't hers either... and she disappeared again."

"It be true, though. It be common to be disciplinin' your kids, but it takes a special kind of person to be truly cruel. To be abusin' their kids."

"A special kind of broken," Thrall growled softly, and Vol'jin nodded.

"Some people be not right in the head. They be hurtin' their kids. Not teachin' them nothing except fear and hate. They be tellin' the kids it be their fault when it be nothin' of the sort. They be more dangerous than the Sea Witch. No one be expectin' you to agree with _her_."

"Blackmoore was that kind of broken," Thrall said. "He was... hateful. Cruel. He blamed everyone around him for his own failings. He... made me want to please him. I thought that if I could he wouldn't be so cruel. Then came the day that he nearly let me die in the arena. When he didn't call for my death, I thought that he realized what he was doing, but he only spared me so that he could beat me and allow others to do so because I'd failed to meet his expectations. It was then that I realized that monster was impossible to please."

"You tried sacrificin' to the Sea Witch, and realized that she never be happy, no matter what. She always be hungry."

"Yes," Thrall said, and his eyes widened suddenly. The world around him was wavering. He saw ghosts waving at him from the shadows, the omnipresence of the spirits. "Oh..."

"It be workin'," Vol'jin said, chuckling. "You asked if my Da be proud of me. I be believin' the answer be yes. I believe he be proud of you, too. As for your parents, I be hearin' the stories of Drek'thar and the other Frostwolves. I be thinkin' your parents not be broken. I be thinkin' your parents be spankin' you for puttin' oatmeal in your sister's hair--"

"That was _one time_ \--"

"But they not be hittin' you if you be winnin' seven bouts instead of eight. They be not hatin' you. The loa be knowin' for sure, if you still have questions."

"No, I have other questions," Thrall murmured.

"What those be?"

"...what are loa?"


	3. Chapter 3

Thrall's fist connected with the training dummy and it rocked, creaking back on its mount, throwing dust into the air that glittered in the heat of the day before it rained down around him. Thrall did not picture an enemy before him. Too often, gladiators were encouraged to hate their enemy, to picture them in their mind while training so that they could punish them over and over. Thrall had once imagined Blackmoore. Sometimes, he was still tempted, but his former owner was dead, and such things were habit forming.

 _We must be greater than revenge,_ Thrall thought, throwing another punch, and then another. He monitored each blow carefully, wanting to exercise but not destroy the training dummy. Another sign of a loss of control, another sign that he wasn't in balance. _A shaman must be in harmony with the elements at all times, and while the elements may be tumultuous at times, they are also calm. A shaman must know himself. A shaman must find his centre--_

He felt his fist connect with a hand, the impact loud enough that he looked up, startled. Garona stood before him, one of her hands having caught his blow with remarkable ease. Thrall stopped and smiled. "You're very quiet."

"Your thoughts are very loud," Garona said. "Do you want a sparring partner?"

"If I may also have a storyteller," Thrall said, shifting his posture to square off against her. Sweat prickled along the muscles of his bare back, and he could feel it drip, soaking into the waistband of his trousers. His fists tightened, the wraps around his fingers sweat-soaked and dirty. Garona wore her usual garb, with no extra padding, but she met each of his blows easily. Thrall had known that Garona was fast and silent, and even now, as he could feel the fire within his heart, Garona was muted, her emotions as invisible to him as if he fought her blindfolded.

"Very well," Garona said. "As it happens, the next part of my story is appropriate." She blocked another blow, spun and made to strike at Thrall's knee. Thrall found himself on the defensive, blocking the blow and shifting back. "After Oshu'gun, Gul'dan brought me back to Karabor. He left me alone for a time, but then he dragged me out of the shadows again to present me to Kurd Shadowbreaker."

"You must have been..."

"Young, yes. As you were when you began to train with Sergeant." Garona snapped a kick at his side, and Thrall winced as he absorbed it. "Kurd was to be my combat instructor, though I use those terms loosely. I was given a knife. Kurd was bare-handed. I was instructed to defend myself. Kurd beat me until I learned how."

"But that's not--"

"Kurd was an assassin, not a drill instructor. He had little concern for fairness, or my personal welfare. If I died, it was because I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't worthy of the brief life I'd already had. The first time I managed to deflect a blow, I was so proud of myself... and then he sent me flying because I'd gotten distracted by my own success."

Thrall frowned, and ducked her next blow, sweeping his leg low. She jumped back, and Thrall advanced on her, striking hard and fast. "But you survived."

"I did, but our training could only end one way," Garona said, deflecting the blows. Thrall could feel the padding in her sleeves, and the muscle underneath. "I was ten when I killed him. For years of beatings, of torture. My first feeling was relief. I was free from him. My second was abject fear. I hid in the shadows of Karabor until Gul'dan dragged me out. He told me..." She paused, and Thrall pulled his blow. "That he was proud of me for surviving, that the objective had been to teach me to kill."

"When you were terrorized and backed into a corner," Thrall growled. "That's no way to teach a child."

"That depends on what you want to teach the child, doesn't it?"

~ * ~

"This is a map of Shadowmoon Valley," Gul'dan said. Garona peered down at it. She had seen maps before, brief sketches on hide, but this was the largest one she'd ever seen... and frankly, it was quite disappointing. While she could see the edges of the mountains, and the settlement of the Dragonmaw clan, she could recall much more from her journey to Nagrand. "What do you think?"

"It is very plain," Garona said. "It's missing details. The Hand of Gul'dan is here." She lay her hand over part of the map. "And the forest of obsidian trees was here." She pointed to another section that was largely featureless.

"Shadowmoon Valley has changed since this map was created," Gul'dan said, neither acknowledging nor disagreeing with her assessment, and Garona's spirits rose.

 _He approves,_ she thought, though Gul'dan made a noise in the back of his throat.

"Shadowmoon Valley needs to be remapped. The details need to be preserved, but that will be for another time." He studied Garona, his black gaze piercing her through and through. She kept her eyes on the map. “I need you to deliver a message for me to Shadowmoon Village.”

Garona found the settlement in question far to the west, and she traced a finger from the temple to the village along the mountain range, and then looked up for confirmation. He nodded slightly. “I would need to go this way.”

“The land has changed, as I said. Copy this portion of the map, and use it to guide you. Fill in what has changed and it will be added to the great map.” He gave a thin, humourless smile. “It is too valuable to be taken from Karabor.”

"Yes, Gul'dan," Garona said. Gul'dan nodded and presented her with a handful of tools. A stick of carbon to mark a series of smaller hides. Immediately, Garona began to copy the map, her movements quick and precise, and soon, the form of the mountain range was duplicated. She marked each portion of the map with runes, and Gul'dan raised an eyebrow, but said nothing of it.

“You will need supplies,” Gul'dan said, his voice grating. “And you will need this.” He drew a knife from his belt, a sharp piece of obsidian affixed on a wooden handle and bound with leather. Garona wrapped it carefully in one of the pieces of hide, and tucked it away on her person.

“I'll bring weapons with me, for hunting,” Garona said. Gul'dan did not reply, but her mind was already racing, making plans.

“Pack and depart immediately,” Gul'dan said finally. “And...” His lip twitched briefly. “Take as long as you need.”

“It will be done,” Garona said. It didn't take long to fold her tunics into her backpack, crammed into it tightly, creating a gentle cradle for her maps and Gul'dan's knife. She took her own knife and strapped it to her side. She would need that. Flint and tinder, too, would be needed, so she could start a cooking fire. They had never lacked for them when they had travelled the lonely path through Shadowmoon Valley, curving around the Hand of Gul'dan, but that would take her too far away from the Village.

Gul'dan had supervised, saying nothing, simply watching her. Her hands shook a little, but she forced herself to be calm, to concentrate. Once she was done, she looked up at him, determination shining in her eyes, before departing through the echoing halls. The warlocks eyed her with a combination of amusement and disgust, shaking their heads. Garona ignored them, holding her head high as her curls bounced against her shoulders. The scouts on the wall jeered at her as she carefully walked down the steps and took her first solitary steps on the valley's floor.

The ground was hard black, and Garona toed at it curiously. While it wasn't the same fel iron as Karabor's floors, it still felt hard, unwelcoming. She remembered seeing in on the journey to Oshu'gun and finding it to be quite curious. _It's nothing at all like Nagrand._ She knelt down, running her fingertips over it. It felt cold, and Garona looked up. She could see the sun's light filtering through dismal, thin clouds. In Nagrand, when she'd seen clouds, they were huge, white and fluffy. Here, they seemed to blanket the sky.

 _I wonder how long this will take?_ Garona wondered as she began to walk. Her gaze studied each detail, seeing ruins of old settlements, ground into dust by bad weather. She wandered into one of them, poking at what had been left behind. Some things were petrified, and others so worn down they were unidentifiable lumps.

 _This could be a skinning pit,_ Garona mused. _And those are houses, though they look like they've collapsed into themselves… I wonder what happened here?_ She circled the worn village twice and began to sketch, using the shape of the mountains to guide her hand.

Her stomach reminded her that she would need to hunt soon, and Garona looked around over the dead, dirty ruins. She knew how to hunt, in theory. She'd listened to the hunters make their boasts. The key was looking for homes, and tracks, depending on what she was hunting.

As hunger gnawed at her stomach, she began to search and came to one unfortunate, painful conclusion: nothing was growing here. There was nothing for animals to eat, unless they could eat polluted soil and rock. Distantly, she could see stands of trees, thin, dark and sinister. Those were the homes of the Arakkoa, a strange race that had the appearance of the windrocs of Nagrand, save that they were more colourful, bipedal, and a little bit smarter.

 _If they have a nest there, they might have food,_ Garona thought, and gripped at the knife in her hand. _If I have to fight more than one..._ She knew so little about them, they hid themselves often. The ogres were open about their existence, because they were so strong, and every orc knew about the draenei, but the Arakkoa..?

None of this was getting her any closer to food, and her hunger gnawed at her. She turned to look at the looming shadow of Karabor, and squared her shoulders. She would have to go back, admit she failed and... she shuddered, fear mixing with the stomach cramps. She would be punished, but there was no other choice. She could survive another beating, she couldn't survive starving to death.

Garona made her way back to the temple, stumbling up the great, wide steps until she reached the safe, cool, concealing shadows.

“Half-breed.”

Garona whirled towards the sound, her hand on her knife. Before her stood one of the warlocks, clad in black and purple. His face was relaxed into a sneer, as though he were unused to smiling. His tusks were slightly yellowed, aged past his years. His chin was bare, but his hair was pulled back into several knotted braids. She knelt in the presence of her better as she had been taught.

“Master Gorefiend.”

Teron Gorefiend, Gul'dan's co-conspirator, grunted. “Rise. Come with me.”

Garona did as she was bid, and Gorefiend began to walk. Instead of going inside the temple, they circled around outside along the balconies, one of the only places forbidden to her. Garona's stomach twisted, but she said nothing, instead watching the warlock's back. She had observed him before, often in secret and sometimes very briefly. What she knew of him was minimal: he had a mate and a child who lived elsewhere, and had spoken against her living in Karabor.

 _The Black Temple is no place for a child,_ he had said. _Send her elsewhere._

 _No,_ Gul'dan had growled at him. _She stays._

 _Is he trying to kill me now?_ Garona wondered, tensing up. She had confidence she could outrun him, for now, but if he caught her, he could still beat her. He was no Kurd Shadowbreaker, to torment her and leave her bleeding and crying. He would take her seriously, and that meant he was dangerous.

Teron said nothing, indicated nothing. He simply walked, his robes drawn around him tightly, his steps scraping and shuffling along the fel iron path. All of the Stormreavers lived in the Black Temple of Karabor, from the rough-handed warrior guards to the warlocks, trained by Gul'dan in the ways of the dark arts. There were women who manned the walls wielding bows, and there were men who pounded steel night and day.

“We're almost there,” Gorefiend said shortly, breaking the silence for the first time since he'd found her.

“Where are we going?” Garona asked, and expected a cuff for her question. Instead, he grunted.

“You'll figure it out,” he replied, and said no more. As it happened, Garona smelled it before anything else: the strong scent of dung. She quickly switched to shallow mouth breathing, and moments later, Teron led her down a ramp to a wide, open area behind the temple where there was a flat plateau. Her eyes widened with surprise.

There were people here, and more, there were boars. They were huge, nearly as tall as she was, all bristles and tusks. There were men here, and women, clad not in armour, but in plain leather, smeared with filth. Not far from where the boars were kept penned was green. Most of it was _gresht_ , a tough vegetable that grew anywhere there was the slightest hint of moisture, but there were other things, root vegetables, being carefully tended by more filth-smeared men and women with different tools.

“These are farmers,” Gorefiend said. “We do not hunt here in Shadowmoon Valley. There is no food aside from what we can wrench from the land here, where it is softer, less dead. The boars are the meat, the leather, and other things. Their mess goes to the land to grow vegetables, and we feed the vegetables to the boars first, so that they live that we may have meat, and the rest to those who need it. It is a cycle.”

“What happened to the rest of Shadowmoon Valley?” Garona asked, staring out at those toiling. One of the boars jerked its head, goring the arm of one of the farmers. He fell back with a bellow, and quickly, two of his fellows pulled him back before the boar could stomp more than twice, while others prodded the boar away. It all took no more than a moment, and the sound of squealing boars and moaning faded.

“The draenei,” Gorefiend said shortly. “This was one of their strongholds once. You can see their old cities, worn down by the poison rains. They shared it with the Shadowmoon Clan, they who named this portion of Draenor. As the orcs grew stronger, the draenei turned the elements on us. They began to hate us. We have always made war, it is how it has always been, but this was new, it was poison. They killed the land so that we could not have it. They fled, but we remained. We have made the land comply enough to keep us here.”

There was conviction in his words, a determined, deep-seated hate towards the draenei and the elements both. She looked up, gazing at his hard, angry face, and saw how certain he was that this was the cause of the suffering of so many. She could hear Gul’dan’s words with Gorefiend’s voice, and realized that he didn’t know that he was wrong.

“What about the demons?” Garona asked. “Why do you think they're better?”

“The demons,” Teron said at length, “are only trying to help.” He gestured out towards the farmers. “If you're going out, you need supplies. Meat, _gresht_ , vegetables. When we travelled to Oshu'gun, we slaughtered a whole herd of boars and left the farmers behind to build the herds back up and plant once more. You won't need that much, small as you are, but you must take all you can carry.”

“I thought I could hunt,” Garona said. “There is nothing alive out there.”

“No, things live,” Gorefiend said, and made to walk away. “They just aren't things that you can hunt better than they can hunt you. You will die, and no one will find your corpse.”

“Why do you care?” Garona asked, suddenly and fiercely. “You don't want me here.”

“No, I don't,” Teron agreed, and glanced down at her. “I thought you deserved better.”

With that, he strode off, his feet scraping along the fel iron path. Garona watched the farmers and the swine for a moment longer, before her stomach twisted in hunger, and she fled into the cool darkness of the Temple.

~ * ~

“He was right about one thing,” Thrall said as they sparred. “You did deserve better.”

“Perhaps it's what I deserved, but I didn't get it,” Garona replied, spinning and kicking. “I slept at the Temple that night, and in the morning I collected whatever food supplies I could carry. I had to repack my things three times to fit it in a backpack, and it was heavy. It made for slow going at first. I was two days out when I got caught in the rain.”

“You've spoken of the rains before, but I can't imagine what it was like. The rain in the Maelstrom hurt, but it wasn't poisonous.”

“It wasn't just poison,” Garona replied. “It was acid. That was the reason the cities had worn down, the reason why nothing could grow in the Valley. The Arakkoa had learned how to protect their trees, with their prayers to the Raven God and their tree houses and their oiled feathers, but flesh...”

Garona took a step back, and held up her hands. Thrall's fighting posture relaxed, and he nodded to her. She opened her shirt to the waist and pulled it off. Underneath her loose, black tunic she wore sheathes of knives, bound to her chest and torso tightly, and there was padding under her clothing, along her arms. Thrall kept his gaze polite, but he couldn't help but notice the corded muscle under her dull green skin, and the scars. She gestured him forward, and he took a look. There were a series of raindrop-sized scars along her left arm, pitted and pocked. Carefully, Thrall drew a finger along them, feeling each smooth crater and bump.

“Was this from rain?” Thrall asked. “They look like burns.”

“This was what fell from the sky,” Garona said. “I was caught in it one night, and it ate through my clothes before I could get away. It... hurt. It burned. I could barely eat from the pain, and I had to use my old, damaged shirt to wrap up my arm and put on a new one.”

“You must have gotten sick,” Thrall observed, his voice gentle with sympathy as Garona pulled her shirt back on, the knives and strength and scars hiding once again behind the secrecy of black.

“I certainly did.”

~ * ~

Shadowmoon Village was the oldest settlement in Shadowmoon Valley, home to the Shadowmoon Clan. It had been Gul'dan's home once, and that of Teron Gorefiend, and many others in the new Stormreaver Clan. It was not a temple. There was little fel iron here, and the walls that guarded the village were made of old, petrified mushrooms that had once grown thickly in Shadowmoon Valley, twice as tall as an orc with huge, vast protective caps. Most of them were gone, and only sad, stunted things could be seen through the gaps in the walls.

Garona felt hot all over and clammy. Her arm burned with each step, and her gait was shuffling. Her backpack, nearly empty, was slung over her good shoulder, the other strap cut away from the rest. It had absorbed some of the acid, and she'd need to cut it away to avoid losing the whole thing.

She was worried that the same would be necessary for her arm.

As she reached the gates, Garona found herself looking at a pair of huge, thick-armed guards at the gates to the village as they peered down at her. They were clad in the black tunics of their clan, shot through with a stark white moon and single star, and their equally black gazes were shot through with contempt.

“I'm.... I'm here to see Chieftain Ner'zhul,” she forced out through chattering teeth. She didn't know how she could be so cold and so hot at the same time. “I have a message from--”

“Get out of here, little Spook,” one of the guards said, his voice thick to her ears. Her heart was pounding, it was hard to hear.

“Little Halfbreed,” the second one added. “You aren't welcome here. The Chieftain doesn't see you.”

“Gul'dan sent me,” Garona gasped out. “I'm delivering something.”

They laughed in unison, and one swung out at her. She dodged away, and the blow sailed past her. They laughed harder as she fled into the low hills around the Valley.

 _Think,_ she told herself. _Think._

She thought. Rarely, if ever, had she gotten what she wanted by asking for it. She'd had to sneak and hide and steal. That was what the temple had taught her, what Kurd had taught her. What Gul'dan had taught her. _It isn't what Mama taught me,_ she thought dizzily. _But there is only shadow, and no Light._ There was something else she had been taught too, now. By Teron. _Where are the farmers?_

Approaching from the areas around the wall, Garona sniffed. She knew what boar-filth smelled like now, and it was present here. The boars needed space, and they needed food. Where there was space, there would be shadows, and new places to hide. She crept along the ground and the burning in her shoulder grew worse. Garona did her best to push it back, and then, when she couldn't, used it to drive herself forward.

 _The sooner I find Ner’zhul, the sooner I can stop,_ Garona told herself with each agonizing step. _Then I can sleep._

She'd been in far too much pain to sleep.

There were farmers here, tending quietly to the vegetables and mushrooms, and the boars were in more orderly pens. These ones seemed smaller, and slightly more docile, with fewer spikes on their great, broad backs. Garona noted each one of them before moving past them into the village proper.

There were a great many more people here than there were in the temple. They each had their own homes, domes of clay, sealed and protected against the acid rains. Garona could see places where the clay was pitted like her arm, and wondered what happened when the rain pierced all the way through, inside those small, weak sanctuaries.

 _I have to find Ner'zhul,_ Garona thought. She could see houses of differing sizes, some very small, as small as only one of the rooms in Karabor, and some large, like the great, echoing halls where Gul'dan addressed his clan. _It will be the big one,_ Garona thought. _Chieftains are the most important ones of their clan._

The trick was to avoid the people. Most of them wore cloth more than leather, and sometimes, here and there, she could see women weaving cloth or knotting string into patterns. They were the same ones, over and over, and were it not for the pain, Garona would find it more fascinating. She remembered patterns from Oshu'gun and the clans – Thunderlord, Shadow Wolf, Whirlwind – but there was nothing like this at Karabor.

 _Do we have no pattern?_ Garona wondered muzzily as she peeked inside first one great building, then another. The first one held pots and jars of all kinds, with people simply walking in and taking one, while others delivered heaps of clay. In another, there were blacksmiths, who shaped and refined iron, adamantium, and khorium. _The Stormreavers came from the Shadowmoon, does that make Karabor an orphan?_

She found Ner'zhul's hut on the fourth try, at the centre of the village. It was strung with bells, and they jangled slightly in the wind. A black drape covered the entrance, and Garona hurried to it, slipping under it without setting off the bells. The orc inside, whom she assumed was Ner’zhul himself, looked up as she entered and frowned.

“How did you get in here?” Ner'zhul asked. He was old, Garona noticed, his dirty green face lined and worn, and his hair was a dingy grey, hanging in loose braids, accompanied by a straggly beard. There was something about him, though. There was age, but no weakness, no kindness. His flinty grey eyes looked her over. “Well?”

Garona opened her mouth, but she could not hear herself speak. Instead, something roared in her ears, and she collapsed. She felt hot and cold all over, whimpering as she landed on her injured arm and curled around it.

Ner'zhul was moving forward now, and there was sound, deep sound, as he spoke but she understood nothing. She felt hands close over her, and then there was darkness.

The darkness was not restful. It was filled with angry shadows and sparks of light. She heard the voices of the dead – her mother, Kurd – and sometimes, those of the living. Gul'dan, reprimanding her. Teron's gruff lessons, and Ner'zhul's enquiries as to why she was there at all.

She fell into darkness and she did not dream.

~ * ~

_”Well?” Ner'zhul demanded, turning the knife over in one hand. He recognized it, of course he did. He could only think of one person who would send him such a thing, one student so audacious and cruel as to send a child alone across Shadowmoon Valley. He tucked the knife aside._

_“She will live, and keep the arm,” the necrolyte replied. “An orc would have died, I think.”_

_“No halforcen save for the Mok'nathal have been so strong,” Ner'zhul muttered. “When she is older, we will investigate further. I have time for neither children nor Gul'dan's experiments.”_

_“As you say, Master,” the necrolyte replied. “Do you think it is a sign?”_

_“It could be,” Ner'zhul muttered, gazing towards the fitfully sleeping girl. “It could very well be.”_

~ * ~

Garona awoke to a dull pain in her arm. She gritted her teeth against it as she opened her eyes. As her senses came back to her, she could feel that she had been stripped down to her smallclothes and then wrapped in a blanket. Her feverish shivering was gone, and she felt neither hot nor cold, only sore and very tired.

“You're awake,” Ner'zhul said. She forced herself to focus on the location of his voice, and there he was, sitting by the fire, deftly sprinkling herbs on them. The scent was light, and Garona felt herself breathing it in, and relaxed a little more. Then she saw the knife. “Gul'dan sent you.”

“Yes,” she agreed, though it wasn't a question. “You are Chieftain Ner'zhul of the Shadowmoon Clan.”

“Yes,” he replied in the same tone she had used. “Why did he send you?”

“He said to bring you that knife,” Garona said, struggling to sit up. Ner'zhul observed this impassively, as though he didn't care whether she managed it or not. That only made her determined to sit up a little more, and wrap the blanket around her thin frame. “He wants to know if you have finished your task of dealing with the elements.”

Ner'zhul rose from his seat, and Garona could see he wore robes that were like Gul’dan’s in their cut and colour, but different in how they were decorated. While Gul'dan wore cloth painted in runes that hurt most to look at, Ner'zhul was festooned with feathers and small skulls, knots of colour and beads. Garona watched him, and put her hand against the cot she was lying on, ready to throw herself back. Her elbow shook.

“You are not well enough to hear my message,” he growled, and put his hand on her good shoulder, and pushed her down with ease. She whimpered, and he frowned. “When you can sit upright without collapsing, you will hear it.”

Garona nodded with resignation, and relaxed. She looked around Ner'zhul's home. It was lined with shelves, and each shelf held not books or scrolls, but totems and fetishes, some of them cracked and broken. There were dirty, inert rocks and coal, cracked jars and incense burned down to stubs.

Ner'zhul followed her gaze. “Memories of shamanism, broken,” he noted. “Once I needed them to give tribute to the elements of Draenor, air and earth, water and fire, that also represented the four great races.”

“Four?” Garona whispered. “Which four?”

Ner'zhul chuckled briefly, the sound like boots scraping over stone. “The ogres, Gronn, and their kin, are of earth. They come from the bladed mountains and to fight one is to take down a hill. The arakkoa are of air. They live in the trees and the look longingly to the sky for the day they can fly again. The draenei are of water. They are slippery and tricky, they hide in unlikely places. They had vast farms once, fields and fields, and then the land began to die.” Ner'zhul's expression twisted, angry like Teron's, but there was something else to it. Something that spoke of deeper knowledge. He fell silent then.

“What about fire?” Garona asked when he did not continue. Ner'zhul shook himself from his thoughts.

“Orcs.” He smiled briefly, and it changed the lines on his face oddly, and the flames flickered in the depths of his eyes. “Fire burns. It consumes. It roars and it dances. Sometimes, it warms. Sometimes, it feeds. It eats air and scorches earth and evaporates water. Always, it hungers. We are of fire, it is in our blood.”

 _What about the Eredar?_ Garona wondered to herself, but kept her lips clamped shut. _What about halforcen?_

“We four are the oldest, and we have always fought,” Ner'zhul continued. “As the elements do. We struggle for domination, but fire will be victorious.”

“If the elements are gone, what will we be?” Garona asked, and Ner'zhul glanced at her sharply. “You be.” She was not an orc.

“We will still be fire,” Ner'zhul said firmly. “We are not children, to be ordered about by the elements. We will seize our destiny by any means necessary. I am certain of that.”

“Is that what the ancestors say?” Garona asked. “You would have spoken to them when you were a shaman.”

“The ancestors say what we wish to hear,” Ner'zhul declared darkly, startling Garona. “Tomin has said you require food and drink to recover.”

“Tomin?” Garona asked, and Ner'zhul crossed his hut again, sticking his head out of it and barking an order. He retreated back inside, and Garona could hear urgent activity outside.

“Tomin is a necrolyte,” the chieftain replied. “He closed your wounds and burned your infection away. He will tend to you further.”

“He's a healer, then,” Garoan said. “I thank you for--”

“No, child. He does not heal,” Ner'zhul replied. “Do not mistake what he does for such an old, gentle art.”

Garona considered, and lay still and silent. In her mind, she could see them, the graceful bird people and lumbering ogres, the sly, half-hidden draenei and the fearsome orcs – represented not by Gul'dan or Ner'zhul, but by the young warrior she'd seen at Oshu'gun – engaged in a deadly dance, a mix of Kurd's brutal training, the showy duels at the gathering, and the raw, terrible aggression in Gul'dan's eyes when he beat her. She shivered, and tried to push the ideas aside.

Tomin the necrolyte came swiftly, and a slope-backed peon walked behind him, carrying a bowl. The peon set the bowl down before Ner'zhul and waited, bowed.

“Not today,” Ner'zhul grunted, and the peon fled; any hunger Garona felt fled at the sight of the relief on her face. Ner'zhul jerked his head towards Garona, and Tomin went to her side.

Tomin was thin, clad in plain black robes, edged with white, and Garona saw neither warlock nor shaman in him. Instead, he was something else entirely, flat-faced and bald. His expression was blank, as if he'd forgotten how to smile or frown, but Garona would not mistake him for stupid. Intelligence, and a bit of cruelty, sparked behind his eyes. He reached for her and she shrank back, but there was nowhere to go.

The necrolyte peeled her bandages back, and from what Garona could see, her wounds were raw looking, but very clean. There was no infection-grime, and no limb-rot. It just hurt. Tomin put his hand on her arm and _pulled_. The smell of her own flesh burning reached her nostrils and she cried out. The necrolyte clamped his hand over her mouth, and she bit him. He did not flinch, and he let her dig her teeth into his fingers.

The sensation went on and on, and it was as though the poison coming from the clouds was pounding on her again, driving its way through her clothes and into her flesh. She couldn't bite, all she could do was scream and scream.

When it was over – and it did end, after too long – Garona fell back, limp and tired, and Tomin retreated to tend to his fingers while Ner'zhul rebound her arm. He was not gentle, but he was firm, and her arm felt more numb than not, so even rough treatment did not trouble her.

“Never again,” Garona whispered. “Never...”

“The alternative is that you lay here, useless and draining our resources, halfbreed,” Tomin said, his voice thick and harsh, pain and exhaustion linked together. “There is always a price, and it is either coin or time. You do not have time, and you do not have coin. You will not be able to stay here, in the home and the bed of our Chieftain forever. Gul'dan's parasite will not be suffered to stay here.”

“Enough, Tomin, go,” Ner'zhul said. “And clamp down better next time, she shouldn't have been able to bite you.”

The necrolyte snarled and stormed out. Garona watched him go, and looked up at Ner'zhul. “I didn't know it was your bed.”

Ner'zhul grunted dismissively. “I don't use it much. Trances are more restful than sleep. They also keep you more alert. I recommend it when you feel unsafe.”

 _I always feel unsafe, except when I am in the shadows,_ Garona thought. “What did he mean? What did I pay? What did he do?”

“Necrolytes do not heal, I've told you,” Ner'zhul said, frowning. “They pull your strength out, and you heal yourself. If your wound was too bad, it would have killed you.” Garona blinked, unsettled, and Ner'zhul continued. “In a day or two, if you are strong, you can travel again. You will learn my message and take it back to Karabor.”

“What coin could I have paid?” Garona asked. “If I had something to pay?”

“Necrolytes can pull strength from others to repair injuries,” Ner'zhul said. “But your life is not worth that of one of the peons.”

 _'Not today',_ Ner'zhul had said to the peon. Garona thought of the way her mother had died, and shuddered. “What do I pay to you?”

“Nothing, yet,” Ner'zhul replied. “You are not useful to me. This will not be your last trip into the wilds of Shadowmoon Valley. You will be useful to me, as you are useful to Gul'dan.”

“I'm not,” Garona said abruptly. “I'm not useful to him at all, he hates me.”

Ner'zhul chuckled, and secured the bandage on her arm, then brought her the bowl, and she saw it was filled with broth, though it was no longer very hot. She wondered how much time she had lost by being 'healed', and how much she had paid. She brought it to her lips and drank, tasting Tomin's blood mixed with it.

“You are not special in that regard, child,” Ner'zhul told her pointedly. “Gul'dan hates everyone.”

~ * ~

“What was the message?” Thrall asked. The sparring session had ended long ago, and now he was washing himself in the barrels of water collected from the shore. It was biting and salty, but it didn't waste good, clean water on sweaty fighters.

“The elements had been all but banished from Shadowmoon Valley, and the only ones left were those that could be harnessed to violent purpose,” Garona replied. She had rolled up her sleeves, and was rinsing her wrists and hands in the cold water, and scooping it up to wipe along her face and neck. “He made me memorize it until I could speak the words in his voice as if from his mind.”

“I've done that trick,” Thrall murmured. “But... Ner'zhul is an enemy of our people, like Gul'dan. That we use the same techniques... that Drek'thar teaches the way Ner'zhul did...”

Garona was silent, but her expression, the way her nose wrinkled and her mouth twisted, indicated contempt the way a snort would. “Ner'zhul was a shaman once, a true shaman. I never learned why he betrayed the others, aside from the rise of the warlocks and Gul'dan's influence, but what was hinted at was that one day he heard something from the ancestors he did not like.”

“It's strange to think someone like that could become a leader,” Thrall remarked, and began to wipe himself down with a rough piece of linen. “People looked up to him once.”

“If a hero lives long enough, they can see themselves become a villain,” Garona said.

Thrall turned his head, his mouth open to deny it, but she was gone.

~ * ~

Thrall found Varok Saurfang, warrior of the Blackrock clan, High Overlord of the city of Orgrimmar, standing outside the city's gates, watching the farmers tend to their hogs. Thrall found himself thinking of Garona's stories, of the way the farmers of Draenor had perpetuated their herds.

“It smells just as bad here as it did on Draenor,” Varok began, nodding to the farms. Thrall wrinkled his nose. “A pig shits the same no matter where they're doing it.”

“Why are you standing downwind from it, then?” Thrall asked, and Varok shrugged.

“To remember that fact,” Varok replied. “You've made a new friend.”

“An old friend, technically,” Thrall said, and let his gaze drift over the farmers and pigs both. “One with very old stories.”

“Ah,” Varok said. He was silent, but rested his hand on his belt where his axe would usually hang. “What do you think?”

“That there was much of the stories that Drek'thar and Orgrim left out,” Thrall replied. He looked over at Varok. “Though I suppose stories about farming aren't very exciting for a boy that wants to know all about his people.”

Varok relaxed a fraction, and Thrall knew why. His heart clenched painfully. “No, farming isn't exciting. It isn't glamourous. It isn't stirring, but it is necessary. A great deal that isn't pleasant is necessary.”

“We can tell ourselves that,” Thrall said quietly. “We can tell ourselves that we are justified in doing unpleasant things out of ignorance.”

“Just so,” Varok growled, and looked away. Thrall put his hand on Varok's arm, and he looked back. “Warchief?”

“The difference between being a villain and being a hero is that when a hero makes mistakes, they acknowledge those mistakes. They understand that they've made them and move on. They don't make the excuse that it was inevitable, that it had to happen.”

Silence hung between them, and then Varok chuckled, just a little. It was a sad thing, a dry thing. “You are so very young, Thrall.”

“Then it's a good thing I have those who are well-aged to guide me, isn't it?” Thrall replied lightly.

“Are you calling me old, boy?” the High Overlord demanded, and Thrall smiled at him, blue eyes sparkling in the light of day.

“I would never,” Thrall replied, and together, they went back to watching the farmers toil.


	4. Chapter 4

Orgrimmar sweltered in the height of summer. Heat rose off of the newly carved streets in waves, and Thrall could not help but think of Jaina's reaction to the heat when ground had been broken, all those weeks ago. That had been at the beginning of the season, and they were edging into Late Summer now.

_It's later, but it's certainly not any cooler,_ Thrall thought ruefully. Most of the work had been done, now it was in the details of the city: building up the smaller buildings and then the walls. Some places were still rather pathetically bare, but with so many working, it was only a matter of time before Orgrimmar stood whole.

It was too hot to wear armour, or much of anything. Thrall wore a thin shirt, plastered by sweat to his chest and the lightest pair of trousers he could find, along with leather sandals. On days like this he would tour the city, looking over what had been accomplished and what still waited to be completed. People stopped their work to smile, to bow, to wave, and sometimes to press things into his hands. Sometimes, the little gifts were spare bolts or pieces of metal left over from the construction of their homes, which Thrall would then pass on to those in need of them. Other times the gifts were a bit of food or a gourd of water. Thrall was grateful for all of it, for the generosity of his people. _I must remember to give back. Always, I must give back._

Everywhere he went, his city – his people's city – was growing, fresh and new. He could smell new metal and wood, baked clay and stone. He could feel the hard-packed dirt and the elementals – mostly fire and earth, but air and water too – adapting to so many people, to the taming of a portion of wide, wild Kalimdor.

_We will take what we need, and give back._ His mind drifted, thinking of his conversations with Garona, her stories of a very different homeland. _No one will ever believe demons are helpful again._

An angry shout split the air, and Thrall's gaze snapped towards the sound. Not far from the smithy, two orcs were yelling and shouting at one another. _It's so hot, tempers are fraying,_ Thrall thought, and hurried towards them. “Stop this! Stop!”

The orcs, both female, looked at him with surprise, fists upraised but still. “Warchief,” one said. “What troubles you?”

“Sumi,” Thrall began, “and Tumi.” They both nodded. “You're sisters, why are you fighting?”

“We were disagreeing with one another,” Sumi said, giving him an uncomprehending look. “Sisters do that, Warchief.”

“There are better ways to end disputes,” Thrall insisted. “I've given in and fought duels before, but it's not necessary now. Please.”

The women looked to one another, and gave him a curt nod. Thrall sighed with relief and nodded to both of them, resuming his circuit.

“They weren't going to hurt each other very much,” Garona observed as Thrall turned a corner. He managed to avoid jumping as Garona melted out of the shadows, and gestured him over. He crossed over to her, and sat on one of the benches. Garona remained standing, leaning against the building.

“Aren't you hot in that?” he asked, gesturing towards her dark leathers. She offered him a flask of water. He took it with murmured thanks and drank gratefully. “I'm hot in this.”

“I've been to worse places,” Garona said. “They were arguing about which method to use to work the metal in the forge.”

“Not something worth coming to blows over,” Thrall said pointedly, and splashed the water over himself with a sigh. “Which places have you been that were worse?”

“Blackrock Mountain,” Garona replied. “The Infernal Forges in Shadowmoon Valley.”

“You were talking about how you explored it last time we spoke,” Thrall said. “And meeting... Ner'zhul.”

“Yes,” Garona said. “I made it back to the temple. It was less exhausting, and I'd learned to be cautious of sudden storms, but I was still very tired.” She looked over at the smithy. “While I was at the village, I took the time to watch the blacksmiths there, and when I returned, I decided I wanted blades of my own.” With a smooth, deft motion, she brought out one of her knives, offering it to Thrall.

When he took it, it felt cool to the touch, and the metal shimmered blue-grey. “I've never seen anything quite like this.”

“I doubt you will,” Garona said. “I add a personal touch to each blade. These are relatively new, I replace my blades when they get old, and I break the ones I discard so they can't be used by others.” Thrall handed the knife back. It disappeared the moment it was in her hand. “It's dangerous to leave a signature weapon where just anyone can take it.”

“I can imagine,” Thrall said. “What... happened next? Did you confront Gul'dan?”

“No,” Garona replied shortly, and then made a soft, whispering sound: a sigh. “He was impressed I'd returned relatively intact. He bid me to make more trips outside the temple, to the Dragonmaw this time. Eventually I would complete the map he'd shown me in detail, sometimes showing him things that the clans didn't want him to see. I wasn't a particularly welcome visitor.”

“That must have been hard on you,” Thrall said, his voice sympathetic. “Was no one pleased to see you?”

Garona was silent for a moment. “In time, I would find some who at least tolerated me less than grudgingly, but no. I had no friends. I was no more welcoming than others were. I could read the contempt on their faces, their disdain. I saw no reason to give them anything but the same in return. I was weak, small, and fragile. Poison training stunted my growth, and I wasn't to be very large to begin with.”

“Poison training?” Thrall asked. _I suppose that I took for granted that I grew quickly as a child. All that porridge._ “Why would that stunt your growth?”

Garona's lips curved into a slight, thin smile. “To build up tolerance to certain poisons, you consume them. It makes you very, very sick at first, but you get used to it in time.”

“They were _poisoning_ you too?” Thrall asked, aghast. “Why?”

“To build up tolerance, as I said,” Garona replied. “It's useful. Poisons can cripple a strong foe, bring them low and weak, and they require no muscle to use, only your own brain. Not all that dissimilar to magic, if you really think about it, though orcish magic tends to be a great deal more hands-on.”

“I'd think that would depend on the mage, too,” Thrall said. “Jaina uses a gun.”

“Jaina Proudmoore is the daughter of honest pirates and clever merchants,” Garona said, though she nodded in acknowledgement of his point. “But yes, it does depend on the mage.”

“What did Ner'zhul have you do in the end?” Thrall asked. “You said that he would have a use for you in the future.”

“He did, and it wasn't dissimilar to what Gul'dan was having me do: travelling Draenor, delivering messages and spying on people,” Garona replied. “In time, I would travel all over the clans' territory, and people would know both my name and my face.” Her expression tightened. “And Doomhammer's little nickname.”

_Spook,_ Thrall thought. “You're something of a spirit, moving through the shadows silently, forever with the element of surprise.”

“It becomes less surprising if you're paying attention,” Garona conceded, but she relaxed again. “You asked who welcomed me. The Shadow Wolves.”

“My father's clan.” Thrall's expression lit up, and Garona gave him a slight smile back. “My parents would have been newly mated then.”

“They were,” Garona said. “Durotan was gentle and thoughtful, and Draka was loud and brash. I thought that they were poorly matched. She reminded me of Doomhammer, the younger and older both.”

“You didn't like her?” Thrall asked, frowning. Garona shook her head slightly.

“Not at first. I admired Durotan a great deal. He wasn't much of a warrior. He could hunt, and Terokkar Forest had plenty for his clan and their wolves to kill, but he wasn't particularly fond of fighting. If he'd been born at a different time, he could have gotten away with fully embracing his spiritual side and communing with the spirits. Instead, he defended his home territory well, and it was Draka who ranged.”

“What was my mother like, then?” Thrall asked. Garona looked him over, and nodded to herself slightly.

“It was customary in the orc clans that if a child was sickly or weak, they were to be exposed to the elements. Humans will protect their weak ones, shelter them. Orcs virtually never do, but the Shadow Wolves have made at least two exceptions, perhaps countless more.” Garona gave Thrall another slight nod. “Drek'thar was born blind, and Draka was a small, sick child. Her parents were from a proud, strong line, and they couldn't concede so easily. They lived at the edge of their village to avoid overburdening the others. Drek'thar, for his part, was trained by Mother Kashur. You should ask him about her.”

“I will,” Thrall said. “My mother grew into a warrior, though, if what you've said is true.”

“It is, lying serves no purpose,” Garona noted. “Draka knew that she would never match anyone's bulk, so she devised ways of hunting and fighting that required less brawn and more brains. Sometimes, she went for long, long walks, climbing trees or hiding low against ridges, watching, waiting. Patient. She couldn't afford to bluster on through and rely on strength she didn't have.”

“Walking and climbing requires strength too,” Thrall observed. “It isn't the exact same strength as fighting, but nothing is. The muscles you gain from beating metal with hammers isn't the same kind you get from swinging an axe, or lifting heavy weights.”

“Exactly,” Garona said. “When I met her, she was a warrior. She had proven unquestionably that she was strong, but she never lost that caution or that memory of being weak. I didn't like her at first, but when I learned her story... I admired her. I admired them both.”

Thrall noted the way her posture shifted. _Admired, and something else,_ he thought, but kept it to himself.

“Your parents mistrusted Gul'dan,” Garona continued. “They didn't trust his intentions with sending me to spy on them, but they were kind anyway. There were no necrolytes there, no warlocks. They didn't practice shamanism openly, but they spoke about it. It angered Gul'dan to hear about it when I told him.”

“And you would have told him,” Thrall murmured. “You wanted him to praise you, to see what a good job you were doing.”

“Yes,” Garona said softly. “For all the nothing it was worth. I was his upraised fist, the threat of his reach. His judgement, but not his justice. He knew nothing of justice.”

“How old would you have been?” Thrall asked, and Garona glanced at him.

“I was thirteen.”

~ * ~

“Someone at this meeting will die,” Gul'dan uttered as Gorefiend helped him drape his robes around himself. Garona watched the shadows, as she always did. He was not speaking to her, not directly, but it was expected that she would hear everything and use that information appropriately.

“Is that a prediction or a threat?” Gorefiend asked as Gul'dan tightened his sash. “It won't be surprising if it happens, but it might be distracting.”

“It is a promise,” Gul'dan said, his voice low and sounding quite pleased with himself. “There will be dissenters, and they will pay for their lack of faith.”

“So that's how it is,” Teron muttered, and glanced over at Garona. She gave no sign of acknowledgement, merely staring at him until he looked away again. “Who will it be?”

She wore cut down, resized black leathers like those of Kurd Shadowbreaker, and it had taken her time to find the best places to strap her personally crafted knives so that they didn't dig into her skin or show through the slightly baggy tunic. She was quite pleased with the result.

“If I were a wagering sort,” Gul'dan began, taking up his staff. “I'd say it will be Durotan.”

This made Garona look over sharply, and as fast as a snake, Gul'dan struck out at her. She turned with it, avoiding bruising, but the chastisement was received nonetheless. She went back to staring at the shadows, but she shook.

_That's why I'm here,_ she thought. _To kill..._

The idea sickened her. Kurd had been her first kill, but it had not been her last. There had been troublemakers over the years. Threats to Gul'dan. Some from within the clan, but most from without. Those that challenged Gul'dan in secret and in return received a knife in the darkness.

'Gul'dan's Fist,' they called her openly. 'Halfbreed Spook,' they called her when they whispered into the uncertain safety of the darkness.

Durotan of the Shadow Wolf clan had called her Garona the Halforcen, as politely as anyone had ever addressed her. Durotan was young for a chieftain, but wise and very handsome. He had a faraway, dreamy look in his eyes more often than not, thinking of a better future for his people. He had a strong mate at his side, and Draka was swift enough with her spear that she could catch anyone sneaking up on him.

Draka called her 'child' or 'little Garona', and she didn't mean either unkindly. Garona would never be tall, never be thick-set and strong, but being little didn't make her less capable in Draka's eyes. Draka remembered what it was like to be little, and that's why Garona could not resent Draka as she once did. She admired the warrior, just as she admired Durotan. No, admire was the wrong word.

She was in love with Durotan and it hurt.

“--will never tolerate it,” Gul'dan was saying, and she forced herself to focus on his voice. She used the pain to sharpen her senses, to become more aware. There was a soft breeze outside, bringing in the scents of fire and cooking meat.

“What if Durotan doesn't rise to the bait?” Gorefiend asked. “He's a dreamer, he still believes in honour and compassion. He could even agree with you.”

_I doubt it,_ Garona thought sourly, but held her tongue. _He's a good person._

“There will still be blood,” Gul'dan said. “The demons have spoken.”

“Ah,” Teron replied, and that was the end of it. He held the edge of the tent flap out of the way so Gul'dan could sweep out of the tent, Garona on his heels. Many of the other chieftains were there, those without serious issues to deal with on their own lands.

Durotan was there, speaking quietly to Orgrim, son of Telkar Doomhammer. Her gaze lingered on him as he spoke and then moved on to the others. There was Blackhand, Chieftain of the Stonefist Clan. Garona thought him stupid and brutish, and his sons, both Durotan's age, were equally stupid and brutish. Their sister, Griselda, was smarter, but very soft and frequently frightened. Whenever her father's hand was upraised, she flinched.

_He curses at her and beats her, like Gul'dan does to me,_ Garona thought, sympathy flickering within her chest. _But he teaches her nothing to go along with it. Nothing aside from fear. She will not make a good mate unless she can find someone not to be frightened of._

There was Fan'gor of the Great Sands, a blustery chieftain that led his clan through great promises. They lived far to the north, where the only two paths were over sea or through the Blade's Edge Mountains, an anarchic land of ogres and Gronn that only the bravest ventured into. The Whirlwind chieftain was here, looking sourly at Durotan, who did not see it. Bleeding Hollow, Shattered Hand and Spinebreaker, Laughing Skull and Shadowfist. Over a dozen clans, though not the Shadowmoon Clan, and not the Warsong. Fenris Wolfbrother, Chieftain of the Thunderlord Clan, those that actually lived in the Blade's Edge Mountains, had come along with his Champion, Telkar.

When Gul'dan exited his tent, all conversation ceased, and they looked on him. Garona crouched at his side, his right hand resting on her left shoulder. She could feel him ready to push her forward at any time, to strike at his enemies and make them bleed and die.

“Friends. Warriors,” Gul'dan began, his voice as slick as fel iron steps wet with new blood. “Over the past years, the ancestors have granted me visions. They have not forgotten us, despite what some... others have said. It has been too long since the orcs have worked together. Instead... we have fought. We have declared war on each other, torn at each others' throats.”

He was speaking of Ner'zhul, Garona realized. She had made more than one trip to Shadowmoon Village, both at Gul'dan's behest and Ner'zhul's, and the elder orc frequently spoke bitterly of the ancestors, rather than with the soft reverence that most orcs used to speak of the ancient, wise dead.

“We are warriors, we don't suffer fools,” Fan'gor barked out.

Garona found it amusing, though she gave no sign of it. _Try looking in a reflecting piece of steel,_ she thought with contempt. _You might change your tune._

“If you expect us to act like milking cattle--”

“No,” Gul'dan cut in smoothly, and he squeezed her shoulder. _Wait,_ it seemed to say. _Wait and be patient._

“I expect us to all act like warriors,” Gul'dan continued, and Garona watched Fan'gor bristle, the implication – the insult – plain. The other chieftain growled low in his throat, but Garona saw he would not challenge Gul'dan. He was all bark and no bite, like wolves that howl in the distance.

“What do you have to say, Gul'dan?” asked Kilrogg Deadeye, the Chieftain of the Bleeding Hollow. His clan was large, perhaps the largest of all of those who had come to the gathering, and others turned to him as he spoke. Deadeye was influential but not ambitious despite the size of his clan. Instead, he was confident and set in his ways. His eyes, one black and deep-set, the other scarred over and dead, looked over Gul'dan unflinchingly.

Deadeye was also a former shaman and now a warlock, but where Garona had seen other warlocks as volatile and bitter, Kilrogg remained as steady and even-tempered as a copse of very old trees or an ancient rockface. If anyone here were to make wagers regarding who would challenge Gul'dan, Deadeye's odds would be so low as to be astronomical. Even Gul'dan knew it, and Garona watched his posture shift slightly, so that he was speaking as an equal and not to an inferior. Deadeye responded to it, the effect subtle, and some of the other chieftains did too.

They could tell quite easily who had Gul'dan's respect and who adamantly did not.

“Draenor is dying,” Gul'dan began, gesturing around him. “It is rejecting us as a wound rejects infection. We need to find a new place to live, to raise our children.”

In the old legends, Draenor was depicted as a woman, the source of water and earth, and her husband, Draenor's sun, the air and fire. Draenor's moon, large and red, hung low in the sky, as if never wanting to be too far from his mother, was called the Red Son.

Gul'dan's gaze had fallen on Durotan, the youngest of the chieftains, and the only one without children of his own. Durotan's expression was stony, recognizing the challenge for what it was. _Does he acknowledge me only to insult Durotan?_ Her heart sank, but Durotan said nothing. He was safe, for now.

"I, however, have seen our salvation. In my dreams, I went walking through the Twisting Nether, the aether that holds our world and cradles it here. In my wandering, I found another being that will help us. Together, we have opened a portal between Draenor and his world, which he calls Azeroth, and he invites us to see it. He claims there are vast fields of green, skies of blue... water that does not burn to touch or drink. There are trees, and... there are beings there. Soft, pink-skinned beings he calls humans. He says they are weak, fat and poor fighters."

Garona watched each face as Gul'dan spoke. Some lit up at the prospect of better, healthier lands. Others looked deeply sceptical, as though the idea of blue skies and safe water were some kind of fantastical creation of a hopeful mind. Still others grew angry and disgusted at the mention of soft, pink humans, their egos stung.

One of the so-called warriors – Telkar Doomhammer – stood, his expression one of open disgust and anger. She saw his son look to him with stupid-faced surprise, and Garona resisted the urge to give Orgrim a sour look. Telkar pointed at Gul'dan accusingly. "Where is the warrior challenge in that?" Telkar demanded. "You claim that we must speak as warriors, and now you want us to fight what... things that are weaker even than the Draenei? You know _nothing_ of being a warrior."

_As if the draenei have been so challenging of late when you've nearly wiped them out,_ Garona thought, contempt creeping through her mind, but kept it from her face. _They are scattered and dying. Killing them is no contest for you and yet you treat it as though you've climbed to the top of the Windy Peaks each time you can lay more dead children at your feet._

“Peace, Doomhammer,” Fenris Wolfbrother murmured, trying to soothe his champion. The great, brown wolf at his side growled, and Garona calculated how much force it would take to drive one of her knives into its neck if it came to it. It would be unpleasant, but she could do it. "Still, he makes a good point, Gul'dan. If they are weak, it makes for poor fighting."

_Do you think of nothing but how much violence you can inflict?_ Garona wondered with disgust, and her left shoulder itched with the memory of the poison rains falling on it, of the agony she'd endured. _You pull life from the land and give nothing back._

"They are not all weak," Gul'dan said, nettled. His gambit had been to play on desperation and laziness, and in turn he'd stung warriors straight in their pride. "There are warriors enough to slake your thirst."

_Warriors of silver and steel, mounted on metal beasts. Warlocks that use ice and fire instead of shadow and corruption. A fortress of white stone with blue flags waving in the light of an alien sun,_ Garona recalled. The visions were real, that much she knew, as was Gul'dan's contact. A traitor to his kind, someone never to be fully trusted.

"What would a warlock know of weakness?" Telkar was asking now, and Garona found the question entirely stupid. "How do we know that this being you've communicated with isn't simply lying, leading us into a trap? You claim the ancestors speak to you, but you're no shaman."

Gul'dan stiffened, and his hand squeezed her shoulder painfully. She said nothing, did nothing to indicate discomfort. "Shamans are--"

"The shamans once worked to protect the orcs and their lands," Telkar replied, cutting Gul'dan off, and Garona knew who she would kill today. Gul'dan's pride would not suffer this for much longer. "What can you claim to have done?"

"I am _trying_ \--"

"What does Ner'zhul think of this?" Telkar asked, cutting Gul'dan off again. He drew his signature weapon, the _Doomhammer_ and in the firelight, the black, spiked length of crude metal seemed less like a bludgeon and more like a dark promise. He pointed it at Gul'dan. "Your own mentor was a shaman, Gul'dan, and where is he now? Does he sit on his hands while you declare his kind to be anathema?"

_You make a mistake in thinking Ner'zhul cares about what Gul'dan claims about shamans,_ Garona thought. _Do your stars and your wolves not tell you how much he hates the ancestors, that it is through him that the elements are fully quit from the orcs? You need better, less archaic spies._

"You overstep yourself, Telkar," Fenris said, holding up a hand in warning. "Don't--"

"Ner'zhul has left this in my hands," Gul'dan replied, his whole body rigid with anger and tension. "He remains in Shadowmoon with his clan, doing his _duty_ , unlike you, Thunderlord."

Garona watched the insult strike Telkar Doomhammer like a fist, and she could feel nothing but contempt for the older warrior. _See if a clan name is an insult to the clanless, fool. You're playing right into his games. A weapon in your hand makes your mind dribble out your nose holes._

"You're a treacherous dog, Gul'dan," Telkar snarled, his posture aggressive and challenging. Garona thought she could scent him from where she remained crouched. "If you claim to know so much about the ways of warriors, meet me in a challenge on the battlefield."

There it was, the promised challenge. Garona's focus shifted to Telkar, taking in the details of his stance immediately. Tall, broad-shouldered and muscular, he was not on guard at all. He was loose, made arrogant by great muscles and a powerful weapon. _A bludgeon to match a blunderer._

Gul'dan too was relaxed and arrogant, but for an entirely different reason. "A warrior uses whatever weapon is on hand. Challenge accepted." He lifted his hand from her shoulder, releasing her to do his will, to be his Fist. "Garona."

_You will bleed and fall,_ Garona thought, and propelled herself forward, wasting no time as she went from a crouch to a run straight for her target. Telkar did not shift to guard himself, instead he seemed about to laugh. _Don't laugh at me,_ she seethed. _Don't laugh at the pain and suffering that has brought me here._ She drew her knife and struck with it in one blow, cutting along one of Telkar's arms. Now he bellowed, now he was alarmed and wary, too late for that knowledge to do him any good.

Gul'dan had ordered her to use no poisons, so her blade was clean. All would see Telkar fall to a child. He struck out at her, swinging his great weapon and she dodged away easily, following the line of his arm. Now behind him, she stabbed him in the back. His armour, black and edged with gold, absorbed the blow, but she hadn't expected to kill him then. He bellowed and tried to face her, but she only circled, staying just out of his reach. Every twitch called out to her, every movement to be countered with her own. She had spent half her life training for moments like these, and she would not be found wanting.

"Garona, finish it," Gul'dan commanded. Her face pulled into a tight, thin smile, though she did not cry her triumph. Silence was her weapon. Silence and speed. She struck low at one of Telkar's calves, then the other. He screamed in agony and fell to his knees. His blood spilled onto the hard-packed dirt as his mace fell from his hands, unblooded.

"No!" Orgrim rose from his seat, lunging towards Telkar. Garona saw Durotan grab for his friend's arm, his expression angry and upset, and from his other side, Fenris grabbed Orgrim's other arm. He remained there, helpless. "Father!"

The anguish in his voice shook Garona to her core. In her mind's eye, she saw her mother, so strong and brave, fall to Gul'dan, begging her to follow the Light's path. Her eyes were on Orgrim, feeling and tasting his anguish.

"Garona," Gul'dan said again. Her name was an order, an expectation. Telkar thrashed, suffering.

_There is no path in the Light for me, Mother,_ Garona thought, her expression hardening. She spun the blade in her hand and drove it into the back of Telkar's neck. His blood – pure, orcish black -- spurted over her hand and wrist. He shuddered once, twice, and then died.

Despair turned to disbelief, and then, all-consuming rage. A warrior had fallen to a child. A fool had fallen to an assassin. _Gul'dan has laid out the path that we must all walk._

"Come," Gul'dan ordered, and Garona rose, returning swiftly to his side. With one practised, smooth motion, she wiped her blade clean and returned it to its sheath, and she was pleased with its blooding. 

Orgrim finally tore away from his friends and ran to his father. Hec knelt down, touching over his Telkar’s cooling remains, his expression twisting between anger and despair. Garona saw Orgrim look from the body to the _Doomhammer_ , and he reached for it.

"Take it," Garona said, her voice a low growl. She found herself startled at her boldness, but could feel how pleased Gul'dan was. Orgrim was looking at the blade, not the one who wielded it. "Take it and challenge me, Thunderlord. I won't fail. I don't ever fail."

"I only have one name for the likes of you to call me, _spook_ ," Orgrim spat, and took up the bludgeon. "I am Doomhammer."

"Don't use that stupid nickname," Garona replied sharply. "I--"

"Enough," Gul'dan ordered, and she fell silent, hardly daring to breathe. He gave Orgrim a look of pity and triumph, and smoothed his voice to something conciliatory. _Someone will die today,_ he'd promised. He had promised because he had caused it to happen, as easily as one speared a piece of jerky to eat. "Your father's death is unfortunate, but he did challenge me, and my weapons are well-honed." He squeezed Garona's shoulder, and she felt a burst of pride. "Now, then. Shall we discuss my Great Portal without... interference?"

~ * ~

“You killed Orgrim's father,” Thrall said. It was a statement, not a question. Somehow, the hammering of metal on metal seemed quieter, more subdued. “You killed Orgrim's father, and _you_ speak of _him_ with such contempt.”

Garona did not reply, and the moment stretched until finally, for the first time during their conversations, Thrall was the one to stand and to walk away, taking the long, hot, winding path through the city back to Grommash Hold. It was quiet this day, being too hot for most to concentrate.

_Orgrim was my friend and mentor, and she hurt him,_ Thrall thought, letting his thought rise to the surface like heat-shimmer on a flat stretch of earth. _She speaks with anger and loathing of great warriors. She was the servant of warlocks, the great enemy. She speaks of their lessons as though they had something worth teaching. I can't, I--_

Something jarred against his shoulder, and Thrall looked up, seeing Naz'grel. The other orc was a little older than himself, born on Azeroth rather than Draenor. Divested of his armour, he was still tall and muscular, and scars crisscrossed along his arms and back. Some of them were thin, fine blade cuts, while others were jagged rents in bright green flesh.

“Your pardon, Warchief,” Naz'grel said. “I was just on my way out to meet with Garuka. She's just seeing her brother off.”

“Her brother?” Thrall said. He remembered Garuka, one of the scouts from Hyjal that had ridden far and fast to deliver news between camps, but he hadn't recalled that she had a brother. “Is he quite young? I don't think I've met him.”

Naz'grel chuckled, and slapped his arm. “Oh, you have. He's older than she is and sour.”

_Not another one,_ Thrall thought. “Sour about what?”

All at once, Naz'grel's good humour drained out of him. “It's not something to concern yourself with. Logrosh is rarely ever in Durotar, much less Orgrimmar.”

Thrall frowned. “Unless this meeting is supposed to be private, I'd like to talk to Garuka and ask about it.”

Naz'grel considered and then shrugged. “If you wish, Warchief.” He continued on his way, and Thrall fell into step by his side. He made no further conversation, letting his thoughts swirl, chasing one another around like horned lizards in a dust pool.

Their path took them to what had been designated the Talon Gate, the entrance by the Southfury River that ran through Durotar, marking it as separate from the rest of the barren lands. Lounging in the shadows was a younger orc woman, dressed in a sleeveless grey-white tunic and leather trousers. She looked up with first pleasure, then surprise, when she saw them.

“Warchief Thrall, it is an honour.” She rose smoothly to salute him, fist to chest. “I was only expecting Naz.”

Thrall suddenly felt acutely self-conscious, and realized that he was in fact intruding on something that was likely very private. “Scout Trueshot, I won't be here long. I simply had a question for you.”

“Of course,” Garuka replied. “Please, sit down.” She smiled crookedly. “In your own city.”

“It's our city,” Thrall reminded her and sat in the shade. Naz'grel stood, taking the time to inspect the work being done on the gate. “Naz'grel told me that you were seeing your brother off, but where was he going?”

Garuka sighed slightly. “He's said he's not comfortable staying in the city, so he's ranging south, towards the great marsh. Supposedly, there are ogres and he wants to gauge their level of cooperativeness. Orcs and ogres haven't been allies since the days of Doomhammer and the Mok'nathal, but it's worth a shot, I suppose.”

“Orgrim told me he convinced the ogres to help through his friendship with the Mok'nathal,” Thrall recalled, and then frowned. “Why is Logrosh so uncomfortable here?”

“He's very peculiar,” Garuka said vaguely. “But he's very loyal and productively serving the Horde.”

“Then why does he isolate himself?” Thrall pressed. “You like it here, don't you?”

“Yes, for all it's very hot,” Garuka said. “Better hot than cold. I doubt this place gets snow. Not like Lordaeron.”

“I remember how much snow Lordaeron used to get,” Thrall said ruefully. “Feet and feet of it until you could get lost in it trying to get from one place to the other.”

“We were mostly moving it,” Garuka put in, and at Thrall's look, added, “The Camps aren't a good place for snow. It just gets in the way, and we'd stamp it down or be given shovels to clear it away. Mostly it was wet and cold, and some would get sick.”

“I only would have seen them later in life, but you... grew up there, didn't you?” Thrall's voice was soft and sympathetic. “I'm sorry.”

“We did, yes. I know that you're sorry, that's why I tell him--” She stopped abruptly. “Never mind.”

“Please,” Thrall said, putting all of his persuasiveness into his tone. “Tell me, I want to understand.”

“Very well,” Garuka said, and her gaze found Naz'grel, giving her something to focus on as she spoke. Even in the shadows, a different kind of darkness flickered over her expression. “I was only a baby when my family was captured and taken to the camps. I don't remember anything of the earliest years, not the way Logrosh does. He was six. Old enough to remember, but not truly old enough to remember clearly.”

“What does he remember?” Thrall asked quietly. Garuka glanced at him briefly, and then back to Naz'grel.

“He remembers the day we were taken in great cages. The three of us – my mother, my brother and I – chained together and guarded, and my father separate. He was dangerous, he had been a warrior when we were still at war with the humans. When he was being transported by guards, they had many weapons, as though one orc were a threat to their whole kingdom.”

“The right orc can be,” Thrall noted. “Not one that's chained up, though.”

“While being transported,” Garuka continued, as though he hadn't spoken, “he saw another orc, a free one. He was very young, only my brother's age, but he was being assailed by a much larger and older human and given only a flimsy piece of steel to defend himself. He threw caution to the wind to cause a distraction, and urged the boy to run.”

_This sounds almost like--_

“The boy didn't move. He told him over and over again to run, that he would protect the boy and to flee the humans. The boy didn't understand. Instead he stood there, and my father was hacked to pieces by the human guards.” Garuka reached up, brushing at her eye. “He died in front of my mother and my brother. Logrosh says he'll never forget the sound she made until the day he joins the ancestors.”

“I didn't know,” Thrall said numbly. “I didn't speak orcish. I had never even seen another orc before that day.”

“I know,” Garuka replied. “Or at least, I suspected that to be the case. I've told him that I don't believe you deliberately tried to get our father killed, that you were a victim of the humans that held you captive, just the way we were. It wasn't your fault what happened to our mother.”

“...what happened to your mother?” Thrall asked, dreading the answer. Garuka shook her head slightly.

“You saw the effects of the Lethargy. She had been fighting it for her family, just as my father had been, and when he died, she stopped. I was two when she died. She went to bed at night and just didn't wake up the next morning. My brother cared for me on his own, hating humans, hating the boy who didn't run, hating everything.” She smiled a little. “He didn't hate me, at least.”

“Your brother hates me, and I didn't even know his name before today,” Thrall said quietly. “I'm sorry. I don't know how to make up for your loss.”

“If I may, Warchief, there's nothing you can do,” Garuka replied. She patted his hand a little awkwardly. “You couldn't have done anything then, and you can't truly do anything now. I think even my brother understands, deep down, that it wasn't your fault, but he has so many years of anger and hate built up inside him. He deals with it by being alone with his own thoughts.”

“I see,” Thrall said unhappily. “When next you see him, please tell him how sorry I am, and that I wish him every happiness. There's been too much misery in both of your lives.”

“Oh, my life is pretty good, usually.” Thrall followed the scout's gaze to where Naz'grel was bending and flexing. “It still hurts to think that I never truly knew my parents, but there isn't any point in holding onto hate. The guards that killed him and the guards that hurt us are dead now. They are with their own ancestors, being lectured on how prisoners are to be treated. I want my life to move forward.”

“I think I understand,” Thrall said. “I've kept you long enough. Enjoy your time with your mate.”

“Oh, it isn't that formal, not yet,” Garuka said. “We're just going for a nice, long walk by the river.”

“Watch out for crocolisks, I hear they're vicious,” Thrall said as she stood. Garuka waved him off, and Thrall watched her converse with Naz'grel for a few moments, and then they went through the gate. Thrall sighed. “I'm sorry.”

“I was a very angry child,” Garona said, taking Garuka's place beside him. “I hated those who mocked me. I hated the man who had murdered my mother and beat me. I hated the way emphasizing strength left all of the weak behind.”

“Orgrim and Grom, and others, have always spoken of how important our strength was,” Thrall said. “But they're warriors, they didn't understand, did they?”

“No, they didn't,” Garona agreed. “When you place the heaviest emphasis on warrior culture, you stand on top of the shoulders of others while pushing them down into the mud. The farmers were mocked for being too weak to hunt and fight, for being soft, when each season they tended to and killed more animals than the hunters killed. They risked injury and infection from dealing with boars. They harvested the vegetables that allowed us to keep living. You can't survive on meat alone, especially when nothing grows naturally to feed the animals you eat, or feed the animals that feed the other animals. Those who were sick or crippled at birth, like Draka or Drek'thar, were left out to die because it was easier to claim they would never grow stronger than it was to take the time and effort to make sure that they did.”

“But Telkar--”

“Telkar was going to crush a frail thirteen year old halfbreed girl and laugh while doing it. He looked at Gul'dan's choice of weapon and thought he was an idiot. He didn't take me seriously. He didn't take Gul'dan seriously.”

“Orgrim... hated you for it,” Thrall said, unhappy again. “He saw it as murder.”

“It was a disproportionate response, but it was what Gul'dan wanted, and I didn't disobey him. This was the reason I existed.” Garona looked up at him. “Did Blackmoore make you kill in the arena?”

“Sometimes,” Thrall admitted, frowning. “Some gladiators were too popular, too well-liked to die to a mere orc, but others were criminals, or desperate enough that they wouldn’t stop unless put down. Sometimes… the crowd wanted blood.”

“Would you have killed those popular ones for him if he asked you to? When you were young and still believed he could love you?” Garona asked, her voice soft. Slowly, Thrall nodded. “I killed for Gul'dan because I believed, one day, that he would love me. That he would value me for who I was and not what.”

“Would you have killed Telkar of your own volition? Because you hated warriors and how they mocked the weak?” Thrall asked. Garona was quiet for a moment, and then shook her head.

“I kill for two reasons. The first is survival and the second is because that's where my blade has been pointed. I'm no paladin to sentence people. I resented the way the warriors treated others, but it wasn't my job to judge and punish them.”

“So anyone who directed you would need to show good judgement,” Thrall said, and looked down at his hands. “Someone who doesn't make mistakes.”

“No,” Garona said, shaking her head slightly. “We all make mistakes. Especially when we're young. Gul'dan believed he was always right, that he had no flaws. He was rigid and instead of bending, he broke totally.”

“That reminds me of something Sergeant once told me,” Thrall said. “You can be sorry all you want, but that doesn't actually mean you understand what you've done wrong, just that you're sorrowful.”

“Wisdom from humans,” Garona said, and while her expression didn't change much, Thrall gained the impression she was smiling. “What should you say instead then?”

“I recognize my error and I will strive to correct it.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Say 'ahh'.” Sitting before Nara Whitemane, a young tauren druid, Thrall obligingly opened his mouth and said 'ahh'. Crowded around him, a dozen young children all tried to lean in and take a peek at his throat, and he had to do his best not to smile at the sight of it.  
  
“It's all dark,” Kaja, one of the girls said. “How can you tell if there's sick inside?”  
  
“This is why we use a light to take a look,” Nara said. She produced a stone that flickered and glowed with a soft inner light. Holding it up, she angled it so that it illuminated Thrall's mouth and throat.  
  
 _I hope my teeth are clean enough for this,_  Thrall thought, feeling a bit self-conscious as Nara pointed out the healthy lines of skin covered muscle. She poked a little, feeling around with a stick that had been stripped of its leaves and bark, then sanded down, and listened to her explanation.  
  
“The Warchief is quite healthy, but we want to make sure that he stays that way,” Nara said. “The teachings of Cenarius have long taught druids how to brew special potions and teas that help keep disease away. They may taste funny--” She made a soothing motion as the children pulled faces. “--but it's much, much better than the even nastier potions you'll need to drink of you get sick.”  
  
“Does the Warchief need to take one?” asked Nomm, one of the boys, looking up with fearful eyes. “It would be the worst if he was sick. The  _worst_.”  
  
Thrall made an affirming noise around the stick, and Nara withdrew it, nodding to him. “Of course I will. Everyone needs to be healthy and strong to keep building and living safely in Orgrimmar,” he said. “However, if I don't complain about my potions, none of you can, alright?”  
  
There was a scattering of disappointed sounds, but eventually all of the children agreed, and Nara gave him a broad smile as she had them each sit and submit to the same examination, each with a new stick. Meanwhile, Thrall arranged the potions neatly and administered them to each child that had finished being examined. He watched them pull faces and struggle to remain silent against the taste of potions that were, in fact, not particularly tasty.  
  
“Thank you, this was an excellent idea,” Thrall said as the last of the children had been collected by their parents. “I've never lived in a large city, but I do remember that sickness tends to go through people like wildfire when they live close together.”  
  
“It's true,” Nara said as she wiped down each of her examinations sticks and put them away in a roll of cloth. “We may not be able to fight great diseases, like demonic sickness or the Scourge plague, but that's no reason to ignore that many small diseases can hurt people, cripple them even, and there isn't always enough magic to go around. Better to use a little now than a lot later.”  
  
“More wisdom of Cenarius?” Thrall asked, curious. “I had so little time to speak to Malfurion about druidic matters.”  
  
“Of the Earthmother,” Nara replied with a smile. “Though Cenarius' words have been carried with us for generations since the clearing of the mists and the first Golden Dawn. Tauren once lived together in great gatherings that some might call herds.” She looked amused, and shook her head. “There have been great outbreaks in the past, killing many, and making many others too ill to continue travelling. Age comes to all, but disease can be prevented. It's the danger of cities, but it isn't to say no one should live in them. Only that we must take care.”  
  
“Of course,” Thrall agreed. “Is it difficult to live here instead of in Mulgore? You've only so recently reclaimed it.”  
  
“I have plenty of company,” Nara said. “I also fly over to visit with my family, and they are very proud of me.”  
  
“We all are,” Thrall said. “Thank you for joining my council. The tauren should be strongly represented in the Horde's ruling body and I feel that they are.”  
  
Nara ducked her head, and offered him a slight bow. “You're too kind, Warchief.”  
  
“There's no such thing.” Thrall nodded to her. “I'll take my leave. Are you likely to need my help tomorrow?”  
  
“I don't think so,” Nara replied. “Those children will talk and spread the word, and tomorrow others will come on their own. Thank you very much for your time.”  
  
“You're most welcome,” Thrall said and departed. This section of the city was primarily occupied by tauren who wished to stay in Orgrimmar, or wanted to have a place to live in both cities.  _The journey is so long without mages to teleport people from place to place, and not everyone can turn into an eagle and fly like a druid. Perhaps something can be done when we're better settled here._  
  
“You have a way with children,” Garona observed, and Thrall glanced over at her. He was getting used to her abrupt arrivals, and the hush of the spirits was as good a signal as any for her impending presence. “Nara's wise, too, though young.”  
  
“Youth shouldn't preclude wisdom if age means being so set in your ways that you'd rather die than learn something new,” Thrall replied. “Though I'll avoid saying that near Drek'thar. He'll probably hit me.”  
  
“He'll hit you and then agree,” Garona said. She was silent as they walked, crossing from the tent-lined section of Orgrimmar to the more orcish buildings of stone and clay. “Not all sickness comes from people.”  
  
“No,” Thrall said, frowning. “Or rather, it doesn't come from coughing or spots. Sometimes it comes from having water contaminated by personal waste, or the waste of civilization. We have spirits blessing and watching over every water source we can find, and we monitor the run off from the farms. Vol'jin's people had some excellent ideas for it.”  
  
“Good,” Garona said. “There was... a plague that struck in the days before the Dark Portal was opened. It struck at the most vulnerable, the very young and the very old. The farmers, those that tended to the hogs we needed to eat to live, those that harvested the  _gresht_.”  
  
Thrall frowned with concern. “What happened?”  
  
Garona sighed. “It was natural as far as I know. It was spread at one of the great gatherings and moved through the clans. It only made people support Gul'dan more fully, but he was never the source of it. He lost two or three promising apprentices to it and he raged. I avoided it.”  
  
“How did the warriors avoid it?” Thrall asked. “Surely they would have gotten sick too?”  
  
“Their bodies were stronger, they claimed. In truth, they isolated themselves from the tasks of the sick and it kept them at good health. I felt little guilt stealing from them and bringing food and medicine to the children.” Garona's lips thinned into a smile. “Your grandmother departed her clan to travel and treat the sick using her wisdom and what grace the spirits had left her with.”  
  
“That was good of her, though she must be with the ancestors now,” Thrall said, frowning. “I had wondered why Drek'thar never spoke of her.”  
  
“That's Drek'thar's business,” Garona said. “Aside from stealing, I was very busy then, helping open the Portal.”  
  
“How were you helping?” Thrall asked, curious now. “You're no mage, or warlock.”  
  
“I'm not either, but due to my mixed heritage, he could use me as a focus, to pierce the veil of reality into the Twisting Nether and out the other side to Azeroth.” Garona's gaze grew distant. “It is... not a pleasant place.”  
  
“Jaina has spoken of it,” Thrall said. “She said that teleportation and summoning both require the ability to manipulate elements of the Nether, though elemental summoning affects the Elemental Planes, whereas demon summoning affects the Twisting Nether.”  
  
“She'll make a mage out of you yet,” Garona said, amused, and Thrall ducked his head.  
  
“I only understand half of what she says on any given day, but her enthusiasm is infectious. I hope that she'll have time to visit again soon.”  
  
“She may, or you could visit her,” Garona said. “Though some may consider it to be strange that you wish to spend so much time with a human.”  
  
“I'm spending time with a friend,” Thrall reminded her. “What was creating the Portal like?”  
  
“It was...” Garona paused. “The Twisting Nether is dark and vast. Much of the power in it isn't coherent, it's more abstract, waiting to be formed. It's an ocean of souls that laugh and weep and scream and rage all at once. Demons swim through it like sharks, feeding or ignoring as they choose. They are always watching and listening for the opportunity to become more material, to take on physical avatars. If there are elementals of fire and air, these are elemental darkness, the raw stuff of nightmares.”  
  
Thrall felt chilled. “How does anyone survive such an experience?”  
  
“By holding on to what makes their self,” Garona replied. “As young and often angry as I was, I still knew who Garona Halforcen was. You need an extremely strong will. No meek and mild person has ever succeeded in the Nether.”  
  
“I certainly wouldn't describe Jaina as either of those things,” Thrall noted. “She taunted a demon lord.”  
  
“You assume she's only taunted  _one_  demon lord,” Garona muttered. “In any case, the plague was yet another sign that the orcs as a people could not survive on Draenor. The warriors in particular pushed towards the journey. Several of the clans broke down and were absorbed by Blackhand's Stonefist clan, including the Great Sands clan.”  
  
“Eitrigg's clan,” Thrall murmured. “Did that happen often? The clans breaking down and being absorbed.”  
  
“It did, and only the largest clans could maintain themselves enough to have a lengthy clan history,” Garona replied. “Like the Warsong or the Bleeding Hollow. The Shadow Wolves had once been both Thunderlord and Warsong. Such is the nature of time. Borders shift, names change. Traditions are upheld or subsumed.”  
  
“Cities will rise, enemies will fall,” Thrall added in. “Tell me what it was like to go through the Portal.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
The noise of those assembled before the Dark Portal was incredible. Some were shouting and chanting while others were murmuring amongst themselves. Still others pushed against one another, jockeying for space. None of those still believed to be sick were here, and any sign of coughing or the red pox was met with suspicion and often violence.  
  
Gul'dan stood above it all, observing from a stone platform by the Portal. Garona stood by his side, hidden by his shadow but watching everything. It had been eleven years since she had been dragged from the darkness of the depths of the Temple of Karabor, and at fifteen, shadows clung to her, muting her presence. Gul'dan only seemed to know she was there when he required her services.  
  
She had learned so much since those early, frightening days, and one of the things that she had learned is that no matter how much light one brought to bear, there were shadows that would never die. Often, those shadows would stare back. She had secrets that even Gul'dan did not know.  
  
Ner'zhul had not come to the gathering, and he had forbidden his clanmates from taking part in Gul'dan's schemes. His necrolytes had burned the red pox from his people and they had isolated themselves from further illness. To Garona, he had condemned Gul'dan for a fool, but those words had never reached anyone's ears but the warlock himself.  
  
The Warsong had not come, nor had the Thunderlord. Both still had strong holdings, and between Mok'nathal star wisdom and the ministrations of Greatmother Geyah, neither saw the need to follow Gul'dan into madness. Others felt quite differently. Blackhand was Gul'dan's creature through and through, and would follow him anywhere with sons and daughter in tow. Two years had not made Rend and Maim any less stupid, nor Griselda any less timid and beaten down.  
  
The Bleeding Hollow had been ravaged by illness. Rumour had it that Kilrogg had sent his mate away to the Warsong lands, drawing on old bargains and promises to keep her safe from illness in the hopes that the child that quickened in her belly would not fall ill and die. Kargath had lost many, due to the twin follies of crude limb replacements and a stubborn refusal to accept aid from outside the clan, and as such was more than ready to move on to better lands.  
  
All of this and more Garona had learned from her travels between the clans, visiting each corner of orcish territory to bring back intelligence to Gul'dan's ears. His appetite for information was voracious, and had only grown more so the more deeply he drank from the demons' gifts. Garona had watched his seizures with an impassive air, secure in the knowledge that she  _could_  kill him as he writhed and spoke in the Infernal tongue but chose not to. It was in these states that he spoke to his accomplice, the demonlord Sargeras, and his pawn, Medivh.  
  
 _We all dance to his tune, and now we will let our feet carry us to madness,_  Garona thought. At Gul'dan's side stood Cho'gall, the twin heads of the ogre each watching a different part of the crowd. Ogres and orcs rarely cooperated, though some few, such as Cho'gall, had risen to become actual chieftains among the orc clans, and there were ogres scattered amongst the gathered clansmen, though the hulking brutes seemed to be there through no design of their own, instead purely by accident.  
  
“It's time,” Gul'dan said. “Garona.” Nodding to him, Garona walked in front of the immense stone doorway. As wide as a dozen orc warriors standing shoulder to shoulder and as tall as twenty of them standing on one another's shoulders, the Dark Portal had taken two years of work to build and had cost many lives. It was flanked by statues of warlocks, not specifically Gul'dan, and topped with the skull of a great beast. It was a monument to desperation, power, and wonder.  
  
It made her feel so very, very small.  
  
“Warriors of the Horde!” Gul'dan cried, his voice echoing over the crowd. “You have bled, you have suffered, and you have waited, but today is the day you will see the fruits of your labour. Now I will ignite the Portal and we shall cross over into Azeroth!”  
  
The warriors roared, beating their fists against their metal armour, while those around them responded with decidedly less enthusiasm. Nearby, Garona picked out two of the warlocks talking.  
  
“Is Azeroth the name of the territory we'll be fighting in or the world we're going to?”  
  
 _It's both,_  Garona answered silently.  _And it's called a 'country'._  
  
“I don't know, it's confusing,” the other warlock replied, and Garona rolled her eyes. “It's starting.”  
  
Gul'dan strode over to Garona, putting his hands on both her shoulders and squeezed. She held her hands up to the empty air and closed her eyes. Reality, as Gul'dan had described it, was like a piece of woven cloth. Solidly made, it was entirely opaque and protective. If you pushed at it hard enough and for long enough, you could wear away its strength. You could start to see through it. You could tear a hole.  
  
Gul'dan was shredding reality and ripping a hole in it that would bleed like a wound.  
  
Gul'dan made the first cut, guiding her latent power like a blade to slash through. Garona shook, but could not move. She had done this before, and each cut had lasted only a few moments. This was meant to last as long as they needed it too. Garona visualized one of her knives, cutting through leather, cloth, and flesh as though it were mere air, and peered into the Twisting Nether.  
  
The ambient colour of the Nether was a sickly green, fel and terrible. Garona listened to the souls within it whisper, babble and cry. She had seen no orc souls, at least, none that seemed as though they could be, instead feeling out the souls of many others, including those whom they were seeking out. Pink and brown, red and yellowed tan, some as pale as clouds and others as dark as charred meat, these creatures, these enemies, were very numerous, if their dead were any indication.  
  
The whole thing would be fascinating if she didn't need to hold onto her very soul.  
  
She was connected to Gul'dan, the talons of his power sunk deep inside her, and through him, she was connected to Medivh. He was a powerful warlock in his own right, though he called himself a mage, or a sorcerer, and his mind was the beacon that she was following.  
  
The demons swimming within the Nether ignored her, and it gave her the sensation of being marked. Nonetheless, she strove forward, darting through the darkness towards the beacon.  
  
“Cut it,” Gul'dan rumbled into her ear. “Cut it and you will have served a great purpose.”  
  
Garona did as he bid, cutting through the bright point, and the light was blinding. She cried out in pain, trying to shrink back, but Gul'dan thrust her forward, letting go as she stumbled into the green pathway. The sensation was different from being guided. She felt as though she were hurtling through the air without the imminent threat of hitting the ground. She righted herself with a thought, wanting to land on her feet if nothing else. The moment stretched for an eternity and then she was tumbling and falling, landing on hard stone with the scent of unfamiliar water in the air.  
  
She opened her eyes. The doorway on this side was made of the same stone and adorned identically to that of the Portal on the other side, but this one was considerably smaller, fitting only five orcs from shoulder to shoulder, and only ten high. The sky above was choked with grey clouds, and Garona glanced around for cover, not wanting to be caught in another acid storm.  
  
As her senses came back, she realized this place was loud with the sound of creatures croaking and buzzing and hissing. She spotted a huge, black creature with yellow eyes watching her, long whiskers twitching in curiosity. Garona stared back and eventually it departed, unconcerned.  
  
“It will rain soon, you should stay to see it.” Garona whirled, her hand on her knife in an instant. A figure, standing at the base of the ramp up to the Portal, melted into view. He had not stepped from the shadows, but instead had seemingly come from thin air. “I was invisible,” he explained. “It's a bit of a clever trick. Excellent for avoiding one's responsibilities. You must be Garona.”  
  
“I am,” Garona replied. “You speak my language, pink skin.”  
  
“It would be very difficult to communicate with one another if we were forever pointing and shouting,” the figure said, and hands came up to draw back his hood. He was indeed pink-skinned, and had small, blunt teeth. His eyes were soft and brown, matching his shoulder-length hair and his short-cropped beard, though each had a spot of grey in them. His face was smooth but seemed tired somehow, even though his eyes were bright and alert. “Also, we prefer to be called humans.”  
  
“Hu-man,” Garona repeated. “You're Medivh.”  
  
“I am,” he replied. “Welcome to Azeroth.”  
  
Garona opened her mouth to reply when the sky opened up. She bit back a cry of fear as the first droplets touched her bare skin. Instead of pain that came with the wetness, it was warm. Confused, Garona tilted her head up, and the rain coursed over her face, streaking over her skin. She opened her mouth, catching drops in it, and the water tasted better than anything she'd drunk before on Draenor. It was clean and pure, without pain, without taint.  
  
She held her hands out, catching the water in them and let it soak through her. Tears mingled with raindrops and she laughed with the sheer joy of it.  
  
All the while, Medivh watched her, his expression caught between amusement and affection. “I'll tell Gul'dan that he can start to move his forces through. You may want to move away.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
Going back to Draenor always felt like a punishment more cruelly delivered and more keenly felt than any slap or blow Gul'dan had dealt her before: Draenor felt even worse when it was laying side by side with beautiful Azeroth. The site of the great portal, nicknamed Hellfire Peninsula by some Shattered Hand chieftain from long ago, was filthy and dusty, the land barren and dry, paying little heed to the Devouring Sea that crashed and raged against its shores. It accepted nothing, wanted nothing, and despised being disturbed by so many feet for so long.  
  
More people were moving through the portal day by day, people from remote, fractured clans, the clanless, those who had little status in great clans, all hoping for a better life on the other side of the Twisting Nether.  
  
 _You will be swallowed by the Stonefist Clan,_  Garona thought as she skimmed along the shadowed cliffs, watching out for a clutch of ravagers skittering across the cracked earth. She had once witnessed the cannibalistic predators fall on one of their own when it became too injured to fight back, and a whole swarm had once fallen on a warrior that had lagged behind, stripping him down and ignoring his armour as though it were an empty flask to be discarded. Fortunately, they also tended to be defeated by sharp, upwards slopes and by the fact that her ability to remain unseen had only improved over time.  
  
No one could have ever accused Blackhand of being charismatic or clever, but that would be a vast underestimation of his abilities, or at least, his ability to be puppeted by Gul'dan. In the time since the great portal had opened, a half-dozen small clans had been swallowed by the Stonefist and some had taken to calling him 'Blackhand, the Destroyer of Clans'. The man himself did not seem insulted by the title and instead was considering adopting it himself, albeit with a little modification.  
  
Blackhand the Destroyer did have a ring to it.  
  
It was Blackhand who was pushing his newly swelled clan across the land, insisting that they must be the first to strike against the human villages, capturing prisoners, destroying homes and rebuilding on top of what he'd ruined. Others followed in his wake, making sure what was taken was not immediately lost to the weather, but Blackhand wanted more. Distantly, there was a great, dark mountain that Blackhand wanted to reach. He claimed he had an idea.  
  
 _The world trembles when Blackhand can rub enough brains together to actually have an idea,_  Garona thought, and with a last burst of speed, sprinted past the ravagers towards the portal. She ran up the ramp, making no sound, and hurried through, finding the journey less unsettling at a run. She had listened in on other conversations and few had mentioned the crawling, clawing sensation she felt as she fell through the Twisting Nether and landed on Azeroth, running out of the portal just as she'd run into it.  
  
It wasn't raining at the moment, and Garona looked up at the sky, and smiled at its cheery blue colour. Draenor's sky had been stained yellow like a tooth since before the day she'd been born, and from her understanding, many a year before that. Azeroth's sky was expressive. Sometimes it was grey, signalling more rain, or shaded with red, orange, and gold, during the setting of the sun. It was dark blue or purple as its twin moons, one great and silvery, one smaller and blue, rose overhead and the stars came out.  
  
Oh, the stars.  
  
Tiny pinpricks of light in a dark sky, they moved and shifted subtly as night slowly turned towards day and Garona had stayed up on the first fully clear night to watch them, their passage a fascinating dance. While stars were depicted on the Shadowmoon Clan's banners, they had winked out long ago. It was very sad in its way. Only the Mok'nathal still claimed to see them, their vision mystic rather than physical.  
  
 _Just one more reason to never go back,_  she thought. She hurried down the steps, starting out towards Gul'dan's tent. While the warriors were eager to spread out and move further into human lands, Gul'dan preferred to remain near the portal. 'Monitoring its stability', Gul'dan had said.  _He doesn't trust Medivh's craftsmanship,_  Garona thought,  _because no one trusts Gul'dan._  
  
The human traitor had spent some time with the orcs, helping them through, allowing them to get their first glimpse of humans, both through the ability to see and touch and smell him – the last a thing he found intriguing and unusual – and conjuring illusions of other places. Garona had seen images of teeming jungles where long-limbed, green-skinned and long-tusked warriors clad in bright paint and loincloths stalked brown-skinned humans and fought with spears; of ships – ships! -- sitting peacefully in water that sparkled in sunlight, snug against a city of white stone; of vast, contented farming communities where everything was green and dark; of a tall, tall tower, towering over a village that huddled at its base like children huddle at the skirts of their tending parent. It seemed like a dream, it seemed--  
  
There was something in the air. Something familiar in a most unwelcome way. Immediately, Garona's gaze darted around, checking every shadow. She could see the few animals bold enough to remain, the tent, and the various warriors speaking to Gul'dan, asking questions or making their own reports. She turned, following the scent, and saw it, the faintest traces of red dust around the base of the portal construction. She walked over to it, crouching down, and ran her finger along the dust. Her skin picked it up, bright red against dull green, and she rolled it between finger and thumb.  
  
 _I must report this._  She headed towards Gul'dan's tent. He was speaking to a warrior in dark green armour with a black wolf's head crest on one shoulder. Garona recognized the serious line of his jaw, the concern that burned bright in his dark eyes. She brightened, though she was careful not to show it.  _Durotan!_  
  
Durotan had aged since she'd seen him last, looking more burdened with cares than usual. Garona let the shadows conceal her as she watched him speak, his tense posture, and the way his fingers gripped at nothing, seeking a spear.  _I will have to find out what happened later,_  she thought.  
  
“Scouts report more human settlements to the north, but this area is largely clear. There are two pathways, north along the mountains and west, into the grey pass. We... await word from the humans that were captured.”  
  
“An intelligence report should be coming soon,” Gul'dan said, and his eyes flicked to the shadows. Garona leaned forward a little, and he nodded. “Garona.”  
  
She stepped forward and knelt in a half crouch. “Gul'dan.”  
  
“Report.”  
  
“The humans confirm that this place is the Swamp of Sorrows, and that this land is ruled by King Adamant Wrynn of Stormwind. There are few human settlements here, as work has only begun to tame the swamp. The primary settlements are Lakeshire, north in the Redridge Mountains, overseen by Lord Darius Fordragon, called the Invincible Knight, and Darkshire, in the Duskwood, which is ruled by the Ebonlocke family. They have council-elected leaders called Mayors. They know little about the land Medivh claims as his own, other than it's Tower's Shadow Village and they claim many have seen strange sights about the tower at night.”  
  
“We have names now,” Gul'dan mused. “Though Medivh has given us similar information.”  
  
“What of the prisoners?” Durotan asked. “What will happen to them?”  
  
“They will be taken by the shadows of the temple,” Garona replied, her voice even. The shadows had long since swallowed her mother, though the look on Durotan's face still felt like a blow. “There is one more thing.”  
  
“Yes?” Gul'dan asked, slightly impatient. She held her fingers out to him. He snatched her hand, dragging it into the light. “What is this?”  
  
“I found it around the base of the portal,” Garona said. “It went deeper than just the surface.”  
  
“Hm,” Gul'dan said, and Durotan turned to leave, though his eyes lingered over Garona briefly before he went. “How much is there?”  
  
“Not much,” Garona said. “A thumb's width, no more. It could have been tracked through by the clans as they travelled, but there wasn't any elsewhere.”  
  
“No, we left Draenor's dust behind us,” Gul'dan mused, and released her hand. “Do not speak of this to others.”  
  
“Durotan heard me,” Garona ventured, and he glanced at her sharply. “He will speak of it.”  
  
“Durotan,” Gul'dan said, his lips pulled in a smirk, “is too busy mourning the loss of his first child.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Draka led a team of scouts into the great, sunken ruin in the middle of the swamp,” Gul'dan said, and Garona's chest clenched to see the unholy glee in his eyes at the telling. “They were attacked and she was injured. She bled heavily, losing a child.”  
  
“They both must be very sad,” Garona whispered. “Draka is so bold.”  
  
“Draka was born a weakling, and she will die a weakling, dragging her clan down around her,” Gul'dan snarled, and aimed a blow at Garona. She moved with it so that it only stung. “This is why the weak are left to Draenor's hungry grasp and only the strong survive.”  
  
 _You have to be strong to struggle against fate,_  Garona thought, though said nothing. Gul'dan grabbed her chin, forcing her to look upwards at him.  
  
“Do you understand?” he demanded.  
  
“Yes,” Garona forced herself to say. “Only the strong survive.”  
  
“Good,” Gul'dan said sharply and released her, pushing her away. “This is happening more quickly than I anticipated.”  
  
Garona's eyes widened.  _He's admitting to fault?_  “What is?”  
  
“Energy leakage,” Gul'dan said sharply. “Draenor is spilling into Azeroth. This dust is only the first clawtip.”  
  
“Then the pollution will spread,” Garona said, her mind churning. “We should turn it off, stop it--”  
  
“Do you want to open that portal again every time you travel from world to world?” Gul'dan demanded, and she shook her head slightly. “If you did, I would kill you where you stand. The ritual is complex, and there are many more who need to come through.” He tapped his forehead. “Only Medivh and I know how it was done.”  
  
“What would happen if either of you died?” Garona asked, her voice hushed. “Would the portal close forever or be open forever?”  
  
Gul'dan gave her a grim look. “Pray you never find out.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
“The answer to that is a complicated ritual involving various magical objects, including Gul'dan's skull,” Thrall observed. Garona raised an eyebrow at him. “Jaina told me, she said Archmage Khadgar documented it extensively before he was locked on the other side of the portal.”  
  
“Which required people on both sides,” Garona murmured. “Even in death, Gul'dan was as unhelpful as possible.”  
  
“Well, until Illidan Stormrage retrieved his skull,” Thrall said. “Now that knowledge is with him.”  
  
“Illidan Stormrage is a moron,” Garona said, rolling her eyes. “You're right. No one will open that portal again, though the damage has been done. Half of the Swamp of Sorrows looks exactly like Hellfire Peninsula, and the land built up to protect the undamaged area. If you ever want a reason never to never go back to Draenor, just walk around there.”  
  
“I'd go back, just to see it,” Thrall said wistfully. “I understand why you wouldn't, though. What do you think of Durotar? It's dry here.”  
  
“Durotar is different,” Garona said. “The land here isn't sick. It's hot and it's dry, but it isn't diseased. Things grow here. You don't have to fight the land. You don't force it. The spirits are everywhere. You're also so encouraging. You want people to live good lives. Only the kindest chieftains wanted that. Most wanted power and strength, which are valuable, but not at the exclusion of all else. Are you proud of the Horde?”  
  
Thrall blinked at the abrupt question but nodded. “Yes, of course.”  
  
“Do you know how it was founded?” Garona asked, and Thrall considered the question, then shook his head slightly. “We were losing. While the human villages were easy prey, as you can well imagine, once we pushed out of the swamp and into Azeroth proper, we began to encounter the knights. They were as I'd envisioned them, warriors on horseback, covered in metal. Even their mounts were armoured. We'd seen horses, big, broad things with thick legs that pulled carts. A draft horse and a war horse may as well be two different animals. A draft horse might balk from a wolf rider or try to defend itself. A war horse will kick a wolf to death and bite its rider to draw blood. A human farmer may cower behind the walls of their home, but a knight will crush you with a sword or a mace in one stroke.”  
  
“That must have been humbling to the great warriors of the clans,” Thrall said. “Particularly after they'd been convinced that humans were weak, but not  _too_  weak.”  
  
“I would say that the average human is weaker than the average orc, if all you wanted to do was measure raw strength,” Garona said. “The knights were organized. They wore good steel and wielded good weapons. They fought as a unit. Orcs were used to racing over a hill, yelling and whooping. They were used to frightening their opponents into submission, running them down, slaughtering them. This level of resistance, despite the fact that it was exactly what they'd been promised, surprised them.”  
  
“So what happened then?” Thrall asked, watching her expression. She frowned slightly.  
  
“We were pushed back to the Dark Portal. That almost seemed to be the end of it, but we were too desperate to stay, even as the dust was building up on this side. Gul'dan couldn't fail, and the rest of us couldn't either, so he gathered the chieftains. A proposal was made, not by Gul'dan, but by one of the others, baited into it, to organize ourselves properly. Not to let various chieftains and independent warriors raid and range as they would.”  
  
“Who suggested it?” Thrall asked curiously. “It would have been difficult to reconcile that level of unity with the pride of the clans.”  
  
“Zuluhed, the chieftain of the Dragonmaw,” Garona said. “Gul'dan and Zuluhed had never been close, precisely, but it was what Gul'dan wanted. Some objected. Others, like your father, approved. He liked the idea of a united race because he believed that working together could make the orcs great.”  
  
“If we could have negotiated with the humans that early, negotiated for our own land... it wouldn't have brought the dead back, but it would have prevented more blood from being shed.” Thrall looked into the horizon. “Much would have been different, all before I was born.”  
  
“Gul'dan would never have allowed it,” Garona said. “Something both your mother and Orgrim realized. Blackhand was the most likely candidate. During the rush of early success, he'd seized the mountain stronghold of the Dark Iron dwarves, and cleverly named it 'Blackrock Mountain'.”  
  
“Someone should have stopped Blackhand from naming things,” Thrall noted ruefully. “Naming a semi-dormant volcano 'Blackrock' is lazy and also obvious.”  
  
“That sounds like something I would say,” Garona commented, and Thrall grinned at her in reply. “Blackhand became Warchief, and Orgrim joined his clan. It hurt your father badly. Only Blackhand would have Gul'dan's support. Anyone else would be strongly discouraged from even putting their name forward, though Durotan did try. Then on they marched.”  
  
“If the Horde of old was created by manipulation, why do so many speak so fondly of it?” Thrall asked quietly, and Garona remained silent for a little while before answering.  
  
“Because time makes fools of us all.”


	6. Chapter 6

“I still think it's a bad idea,” Shandel'zare declared, and Thrall sighed. She had been declaring the recovery of Mannoroth's bones and their placement within Orgrimmar a 'bad idea' for the last few hours. She had iterated this from the moment she'd heard about Thrall's intention to place the bones in Orgrimmar to the teleportation spell that had brought them all to Grommash Hold, to the final moment they had been affixed in a semblance of their old form.

“Your opinion has been noted,” Thrall said. “Please, leave me.”

The troll mage nodded, her green mohawk moving stiffly with her head, and she strode off. Thrall watched her for a moment, noting that despite the heat, she chose to be fully robed, and then turned back to the plaque. _In Memory of Grommash Hellscream: He has saved us all._

The same day Mannoroth had died, Grom had confessed to Thrall that it had been he who had condemned their people in the first place. That one act of heroism could neutralize one act of pure folly. His thoughts drifted to that confession and knew that it must have happened sometime before the fall of Stormwind, but after the creation of the Horde. It would have been a day of significance.

 _Garona will remember that day,_ Thrall thought. _I can't think of a reason that she wouldn't, but... do I want to know?_ He ran his fingers along the carved symbols of the plaque. _That's not how history works. You don't get to only hear the parts that please you, that make you proud. You must hear all of it._

Grom's remains had been burnt after his death, and the Warsong had howled and drummed, but his weapon, the mighty _Gorehowl_ , had been kept from the pyre. Thrall had affixed it across from Mannoroth, as though Grom's spirit were to take it up once more and strike down the pit lord.

 _Jaina was so angry with both of us,_ Thrall remembered with a smile. _We were fools to attack so quickly, without any rest after cleansing the Warsong. She had a great plan, she just needed to sleep, and by the time she woke it was done._ “You're such a good friend, but you don't understand that sometimes we must make our mistakes on our own.”

His remark, softly made, seemed to stir the air around him. Thrall closed his eyes, extending his senses. There was a feeling of stillness in the air, of preternatural quiet. _A vacuum._ The silence was particularly silent as the air displaced and Garona moved out of the shadows. He could not see her, but he could feel her.

“Hellscream was never short on mistakes to make, either,” Garona remarked, shattering her own silence with the softness of her voice. Like this, Thrall could hear contempt mixed with sorrow and a little envy. He opened his eyes, and his senses returned to normal.

“He was a good friend, a brother to me,” Thrall said, and turned to her. “I want to know about his great mistake.”

“You're ready for it then?” Garona asked, though it was a redundant question. Thrall met her gaze squarely, fortified with old knowledge and new conviction.

“I am,” Thrall said. “I know what Grom confessed to me, but I also want to know what you saw.”

Garona nodded slightly, and the pair of them began to walk. There was a light breeze that rolled along the streets, tugging at their braids before giving it up as a lost cause. It was a quiet day, a lazy one, one that could be enjoyed easily.

_The truth is rarely easy._

“For a time, it seemed that the newly forged Horde would be enough. With Blackhand leading and the other Chieftains obeying him, the attacks on human lands became more coordinated. The new Horde was able to attack a number of human settlements, often destroying them, while others built up strength and created new strongholds. The trouble was, any significant counter-attack by the human knights would push us back.”

“Humans and their knightly orders have been around for a long time,” Thrall noted, frowning. “I remember reading of them. I think it was meant to intimidate me, but I noticed how inflexible they could be, falling back on prewritten maneuvers, and that a number of times, radical changes in the opposing army could cause them to scatter.”

“Whereas the Horde frequently fell apart under coordinated attacks and excelled at hit-and-run tactics that required fluidity of mind, but spread themselves too thinly in their eagerness to press the attack,” Garona added. “It's always surprised me that no great general ever wrote a book of broad tactics that would promote both discipline and flexibility.”

“That would be something to see,” Thrall said with a smile. “Though, humans and orcs will never fight each other again. It won't be necessary.”

“We'll see,” Garona muttered darkly. “We will see.”

~ * ~

“The leakage from the Dark Portal is getting worse,” Gorefiend noted. Garona watched his expression for signs of regret at reporting this development, but he gave no sign of it. For all the concern he was showing, he could have been observing the weather.

The circle of warlocks met in its shadow on Draenor, far from the prying eyes of the other chieftains. The Black Temple had been all but abandoned by the warlocks, who instead had come together to form a council within the concealing darkness. Many of the warlocks had assassins now, clad in the same black as Garona, some small number of them mastering the power of silence and shadow.

At seventeen years, Garona was still the youngest of their number and the most successful.

“It's less than the smallest clan's village’s worth of damage in two years,” muttered Kalag Darkstrike. “It's not that much. If we move away from the Portal, we'll outdistance it soon enough.”

“And then what, we keep running?” Teron demanded. “The corruption of Draenor does not tire as we do.”

“The trouble is the lack of progress,” noted Vorpil. “Both with getting the clans to come through the Portal and the clans on the other side advancing against the humans.”

“It's the human city, Stormwind,” crackled the oldest warlock, a former Greatmother named Nassa. Garona recalled that her clan, the Striking Rocs, had fallen to a plague many years beforehand, from Chieftain Ystelle to the tiniest infant, and only she had survived. The old woman's face was a mess of wrinkles and scars, and it was only from the shadows of her hiding place that Garona felt safe looking on it. All others tended to look away. “They are the gatekeepers to the north.”

“Blackhand managed to find a way past them,” pointed out Seros Crackfist. “He has clan lands in Blackrock Mountain.”

Nassa laughed, short and ugly. “Clan lands surrounding a volcano where the lands are cursed with foul smoke and darkness and he contends with ugly squatmen with red eyes and black skin for every inch. Let us bask in the brilliance of Blackhand the Destroyer.”

Seros flinched at her mockery. He had been a part of Blackhand's clan, chosen to join the Shadow Council, and was as much Gul'dan's creature as his chieftain's. Still, he said nothing. Nassa had broken the jaw of the last person who had contradicted her, and the warrior in question was still being spooned mashed meat by his daughters.

“There are other things to be concerned about,” Teron noted, dragging the conversation back from this precipice. “Like the unrest of the chieftains. Some have been as far south as Booty Bay, and as far west as Longshore. They can smell the ocean and they don't like it. We're surrounded on all sides by water, and they will not sail.”

“That _is_ troubling,” Vorpil groused. “Especially if the Warsong continue to refuse to engage fully with us. One of their offshoots has claimed an island on Draenor. Theoretically, they know how to sail, and swim.”

“More likely that they strapped themselves into catapults and threw themselves across the ocean,” Nassa cackled. “Howling all the while.”

“That seems unlikely but--”

“Silence.” Gul'dan strode forth, stopping at the head of the circle. All heads turned to him, and even Nassa did not balk at the order. “I have consulted with Lord Sargeras about our... lack of progress. He is intent and eager to see us progress and claim domination over the humans. He has granted us a great boon.”

“A boon? Gorefiend asked. “What manner of boon?”

“Behold,” Gul'dan said, and stepped back from the circle. He swept out one arm and beneath their feet, the ground began to shake, throwing up a haze of dust. Garona began to breathe carefully, though her eyes still stung. The warlocks covered their mouths with their sleeves, or coughed while they tried to protect themselves.

A huge shape loomed over them, casting all into a chill shadow. Garona looked up, and let out a silent gasp. The creature was four-legged and hoofed, but was far larger than a clefthoof and scaled rather than furry. It seemed almost the size of Karabor itself. The creature was green, though its eyes were like fire, along with a trail moving down its back that reminded Garona of the Hand of Gul'dan that spewed green lava and sickness everywhere. It had two thick arms that ended in fat, three-fingered hands that seemed absurdly tiny, save for the fact that it also bore a weapon larger than three orcs standing atop one another's shoulders.

“I AM MANNOROTH, LIEUTENANT OF THE GREAT KIL'JAEDEN,” the demon boomed. “I BRING GREETINGS FROM THE TWISTING NETHER.”

Garona fought the urge to quail at its voice, and she knelt. One by one, the others did as well: proud Nassa and strange Teron and lickspittle Seros. It would be vindicating to see so many warlocks humbled were it not for the fact that she was just as terrified by the demon as they were.

“What boon do you grant, Lord Mannoroth?” Vorpil asked, his voice steady, though he did not look up into the demon's burning eyes.

“BLOOD,” Mannoroth boomed. “YOU ORCS HAVE FIRE IN YOUR BLOOD, EH? I DO AS WELL.” The demon raised his wings – wings that seemed utterly useless – and flapped them hard. The trail of fire along his back flared, adding fel green to a sky that was tooth brown-yellow. “IT IS WITH MY BLOOD THAT YOU WILL BECOME STRONG!”

“But we are strong,” Seros said. “Strong warriors that--”

Mannoroth slapped him with the back of his hand, and he went flying out of the circle, falling brokenly onto the filthy, cracked ground. Seros did not rise again, and no one voiced another complaint.

“You must cut yourself,” Gul'dan said into the ensuing silence. “There is no blade among us that will harm you.”

Mannoroth chuckled, and it was an ugly, terrible thing. Quietly, more to herself than anything else, Nassa did the same thing, and through either unease or agreement, the rest of the warlocks followed, and Gul'dan laughed loudest of all.

Cho'gall, with one head still chuckling, cried out with the other, “Bring the cauldron!”

Two single-headed ogres dragged forth a massive iron cauldron, and even they strained as they did so. The warlocks rose and scattered, leaving room for it as they brought it before Mannoroth, who eyed them as though they might be a tasty snack for later, his squashed, almost animal face smirking in amusement. He made a cut along his belly and began to bleed fire. It hissed and spat as it fell in droplets, and the blood stank and smoked as it accumulated. Garona's eyes burned from the smoke, and she had to blink and look away.

 _Who would drink such a thing?_ she wondered. _What fools would think that this is anything that might help us?_

When the cauldron was half-filled with the stinking blood, Mannoroth pressed a hand to his belly, and after a few moments, the bleeding ceased. Where the blood hit the ground, it burned down into the dry, cracked earth, creating pockmarks until its seething hatred burned out.

“Will this be enough for all?” Vorpil asked, peering at it. “Lord Mannoroth has surely not bled enough for every orc in the Horde.”

“Mix it with something,” Nassa advised. “A potion. Fools will put anything in their mouths in the name of personal betterment.”

“What if it dilutes the potency of the blood?” Kalag said with a frown, though he did not do more than glance briefly into it. “We can afford no more weakness.”

“I damn well hope it dilutes it,” Nassa snarled. “As it is, it will burn right through people, and you can't fight with a hole in your innards.”

 _It's poison,_ Garona thought, her eyes growing wide as she fought to keep silent. _You want to poison everyone. You can't--_

“Nassa has the right of it,” Teron said slowly. “We mix the blood in with herbs and water, we create a potion. We don't offer it to all, only those who fight. The adults warriors first, then those who are being initiated. The hunters, if they fail to keep up, the scouts. There's no need to waste it on the grass-eaters in Nagrand. They are weak and will never agree.”

“Good, good,” Gul'dan murmured, nodding to himself. Garona gazed at Gorefiend with horror. He seemed to catch her gaze for a moment, and his eyes flicked away. “We must make this last. Our agreement is for only this much.”

“Agreement?” Vorpil asked sharply, glancing from Gul'dan to the agreement. “What happens if we need more?”

“AH, LITTLE MORTAL,” Mannoroth said, the demon's voice huge and loud. “YOU DON'T WANT ME TO CUT TWICE. A SECOND CUT, ADDED TO THE FIRST, DEMANDS A VERY, VERY HIGH PRICE.”

 _A higher price than poisoning our whole race?_ Garona thought. _Somehow, I doubt that._

“There you have it,” Gul'dan said. “Now, come, there is much work to do before the meeting of the chieftains.”

~ * ~

“Mannoroth,” Thrall breathed. “And the price paid for him to cut twice was... very high.”

“It's an open question as to who paid the higher price,” Garona murmured. “The Warsong lost their freedom. The Kaldorei lost their god.”

Thrall was silent, feeling the wind around him, the warmth, the dust and the weight of living souls. “Jaina told me that the Archmages of Dalaran believed that the orcs all simultaneously fell ill after the Dark Portal's connection to Azeroth was severed. The Lethargy, they called it. Their justification for contributing to the Internment Camps, though their intention was to discover its cause and cure it. At the time, the rest of the Alliance was none too pleased to hear about it.”

“It was somewhat more complicated than that,” Garona said. “Gul'dan was conspiring with Sargeras, and the demon blood to strengthen the Horde was only part of a greater bargain. The contract between orcs and demons was sealed in blood. So long as the Dark Portal remained open, we were capable of fulfilling our part of the bargain, but the moment it closed...”

“The backlash from breaking an agreement is always severe, based on the power of the one you've made that contract with,” Thrall mused. “If I defaulted on my bargain with the goblins to repay them for what they've lent me to build this city, the retaliation would be severe. No goblin would ever treat with anyone in the Horde again... no one likes to be robbed.”

“No, indeed,” Garona said. “The demons gave the orcs vitality, blood. In return, when that contract was broken, they stole their vitality away. The warriors gained the most, so they lost the most. That's why the children in the camps were free of it entirely. If you had waited long enough, the orcs would have been completely free of it.”

“Free, but cowed, beaten, a race of slaves instead of warriors,” Thrall growled softly. “It was better to fight for it.”

“I didn't say it wasn't,” Garona replied. They walked in silence for a time, and Thrall soaked her words in.

“Tell me about the meeting of the chieftains,” Thrall said. “I want to know how it happened.”

~ * ~

Were it not for the sensation of impending doom, Garona would have found the meeting to be very like the gatherings at Oshu'gun. Warriors and chieftains greeted one another, slapping their peers on the back, loudly discussing the latest battles. Hellscream and Bladefist, Deadeye and Wolfbrother, Sharpaxe and Blackhand. Their clans were gathered with them in part, the warriors having been encouraged to attend. Some had brought more: the Shadow Wolf clan was here in full, from the blind Drek'thar to proud Draka, her eyes gleaming with anger and strength. Blackhand had brought all three of his children, and little Griselda looked intimidated by the gathering of so many.

Garona kept to Gul'dan's shadow as he approached the gathering. She observed as Orgrim Doomhammer, now Blackhand's lieutenant, spoke politely to Griselda Blackhand, and Garona could read the fear coming from the soft, small orc woman as easily as she could a book.

 _If he is bothering her, I will cut off his hand,_ Garona thought snappishly. _Her family treats her badly enough, she doesn't need that oaf to upset her as well._

“Hear me, warriors of the Horde!” Blackhand bellowed, cutting short the greetings as people settled into place. "From our wise men, our warlocks and our necrolytes, I have a gift for you. I will leave it to Gul'dan to explain his vision."

 _His vision is for all of you to be slaves to demons,_ Garona said, and for a moment she considered speaking up. She looked at each of the faces sitting in the circle of chieftains. She knew each name. She knew their children, and where they could be most vulnerable. She could remember their disdain and their hate. _No one here would listen to me, except..._

Her gaze drifted to Durotan as Gul'dan stepped forward to speak, watching his expression intently.

"Thank you, Warchief," Gul'dan said. "I look upon you, warriors of the Horde. l see those who have fought against the humans long and hard. Humans that, by all rights, should have been crushed under orcish feet." This set off an offended, irritated ripple through the assembled chieftains, and Garona held back a smirk. Durotan was frowning. "The humans have a secret advantage, one that has kept them strong, and I have searched for a way to overcome it and now, I have had a powerful vision. This vision has revealed to me that we have been missing an important tool to defeat the humans. I am upset that this was not revealed to us sooner, many warriors could have been spared. Nekros, bring it forward."

Nekros Skullcrusher was one of the apprentice warlocks. Young and ambitious, he had been chosen to carry damnation to his people and had done so eagerly. The circle of warlocks parted allowing him to stride forth, his head slightly bowed to conceal his smirk, though Garona did not know how he could bear the smell of the demon's blood. He bore a large chalice made of stolen metal, melted down and beaten into a new shape, carved with runes that would prevent it from dissolving.

 _Would that we put the same effort into cup making as forging a sword,_ Garona thought sourly. A breeze picked up, wafting the scent of the blood towards the assembled chieftains. Some gagged in disgust, others looked curious even as they covered their noses.

"Our ancestors have given us a great gift that will assist us in our fight against the humans. It is called demon's blood. It will make our warriors stronger, faster and more dangerous. It will hone our minds until they are like axes." Gul'dan smiled around his lies, loosely woven, and yet as he spoke, there were those who sat up with interest. "That is, if our chieftains have the courage to seize it."

"This is what the ancestors want?" frowned Kilrogg. "It seems... unusual. Dishonourable."

 _Yes, you great fool with weight to your clan, object, stop this madness,_ Garona willed, though she saw one chieftain stand, and her heart sank. It was Hellscream. Somehow, Gul’dan had convinced the young chieftain to finally come through the portal and attend this meeting. The Warsong clan was storied and powerful, but hard to command. Stubborn though he was, Hellscream was well known, and more importantly, the oldest chieftains remembered his great-grandmother, the mighty Drakatha Hellscream, chieftain and warrior, and the weight her name lent to his words.

"Is it dishonourable to sharpen our axes instead of relying only on crude cudgels?" asked Grom, brandishing _Gorehowl_. It whined softly as it moved. "No... this is a weapon."

 _Why is it that every time Gul'dan comes up with a ridiculous, ludicrous scheme that only hurts the orcs more, someone steps up to meet his expectations and continues this trail of tears?_ Garona seethed to herself. Sure enough, Gul'dan smiled, pleased at his latest tool.

"Yes, Grommash Hellscream, this is a weapon,” Gul'dan said. “Will you be the first to take up this cup?"

Some of the chieftains grumbled, objecting though none stopped Grom from pushing forward and walking towards Nekros. Disbelief flickered in Durotan's eyes, and hurt. _First that idiot Doomhammer, then Hellscream,_ Garona thought. _You deserve better friends._ Meanwhile, Grom was speaking.

"We have suffered long and the ancestors have seen it!” Grom cried, his voice reaching the very stars. “With this, we will crush our enemies and see them driven before us! They will beg us for mercy that we will not grant! For the Horde!"

As Hellscream spoke, Garona was dismayed to see most among the assembled crowd sit up, inspired and pleased by his words. Nekros stepped forward, offering the poisoned chalice to Grom, who took it, and drank, swallowing clumsily, the liquid dribbling along his chin. After a moment, he handed the cup back and began to shudder as the demon blood flooded through him like a sickness. She saw Orgrim, too late to be useful, move to help him, but Gul'dan gestured for silence, watching intently.

"How do you feel, Grommash?" Gul'dan purred, utterly pleased with himself.

There was silence for a moment. While it had worked, Grom had squeezed his eyes closed, but now he opened them and they glowed a dull red, and Garona was reminded of that which swam in the depths of the Twisting Nether. It made her skin crawl, and it did not help when Grom threw back his head, unleashing a mighty hellscream that threatened to shake the stars from the sky.

Answer enough for Gul'dan. He turned to look at the others, to Blackhand, who had drunk in secret, retching and writhing, and those who were looking more intrigued at each passing moment. "Who is next?"

Garona watched as each chieftain condemned their clan, shuddering and trembling with the cheap power they were claiming from demons. Nekros passed the chalice round, watching with satisfaction. He came to Durotan, seated roughly in the middle of the circle, and held the cup out. Nekros was smirking as he waited for the Shadow Wolf chieftain to take it, and Garona had seen nothing so satisfying as the look of surprise when Durotan slapped it out of his hands, and the remaining liquid was wasted on the ground.

As Nekros cried out in alarm, Durotan rose, looking over those who had taken the cup, and those who had not yet accepted the poison. "Are you all insane?” Durotan demanded. “We have had _drugs_ before. Plants that make some swift, or numb from pain. Do you not remember those who writhe and die in agony because of it? This... this _demon blood_ is no different!"

Grom laughed sharply. "It feels like no drug I've ever seen. It speaks to me, Durotan, as a warrior. To _all_ we warriors. Why are you afraid?"

"I'm afraid because of what this will do to us,” Durotan began, pacing the circle. “We started a war we cannot win and now we must drug ourselves to achieve victory? We have taken this part of the land, let it end there. Let us bring the others and close down the Portal. We don't need to war. We have a _home_ here."

"You filthy _coward_!" Blackhand blustered, glancing over at Gul'dan. The warlock was furious, though his anger was clamped down tightly. "You fear death!"

 _No, he is brave,_ Garona thought as Durotan's words stirred something within her, something dead. That tiny light her mother had offered her all those years ago. It was hope. _He is the only one not to dance to Gul'dan's tune._

"I fear the death of our people, of our spirituality and our beliefs," Durotan replied, voice cold. "Have we not already forbidden shamanism, a tradition far older than the warlock and necrolyte magics that dominate us now? The shamans would never have agreed to this."

"Do not speak of the shamans," Gul'dan spat, and Garona sensed a tremor of fear within his anger, and was pleased. "You foolish, ignorant child."

"You must have mistaken me for someone else." Durotan turned, fixing on the warlock, meeting his gaze without fear. "I am not one of your pawns, Gul'dan. One of your tools. Hear me, all of you. We do not need this poison. We do not need this demon blood. All we need is to grow strong as a people, to not be obsessed with destroying these humans. It does us no good. It does not nourish our children, or feed our mates, or build us homes."

Durotan swept his gaze over the chieftains again, gesturing to them. Some stared at him, others squirmed. He let that sink in for a breath, and then continued.

"What we have always believed is that there must be victory or there must be death. Well, we have not been given victory, but we have been given death. The death of our spirit as free men and women, and are instead shackled to _that_." He pointed to the cup and the blood both. "I want no part in it, and neither should any of you."

 _Not a part of the plan at all,_ Garona thought, though her heart swelled with pride. As she glanced at the other Shadow Wolves, she could see them nodding, and Draka's shining eyes. She wanted, just for a moment, to smile at her, to nod her agreement, but she did nothing. Shadows do not move on their own.

Gul'dan had swollen up with fury, though only a single word escaped his lips in a hiss: "Fool. You defy the will of the ancestors? The will of the _Warchief_?!" He made a cutting gesture. "You are not worthy to be the chieftain of the Shadow Wolf tribe, Durotan, son of Garad."

All of Garona's pride dried up as it was replaced by raw horror. _No,_ she thought, fighting to keep her expression neutral. If Gul'dan called upon her to kill Durotan... _Could I do it? I care nothing for most, but Durotan..._ In this moment of defiance, she had never admired him more. All eyes were on him, save Doomhammer, who dismissed her as he saw that she was not moving. She could not find it in her heart to hate him for that. Instead, she watched the shadows as Draka moved out of the crowd and placed her hand on his shoulder, no less defiant than her mate.

"You are wrong, _warlock_ ," Draka said, disgusted to even use the word. She eyed the other chieftains with contempt. "My mate is wiser than you. You have been blinded by this power, and if he were to be blinded by it too, only _then_ would he be an unworthy chieftain. Do your worst, Stormreaver. I will stand by him until the end."

"As will I," Drek'thar said, coming to stand by Durotan, his white eyes sightless, but showing no fear. "And I would like to ask which ancestor was foolish enough to give you this advice."

Gul'dan hissed angrily as the rest of the Shadow Wolves gathered, one kicking aside the chalice and striking Nekros in the ankle. The apprentice made a brief noise of pain, but he was ignored. Gul'dan looked down at her, his question silent. Garona was happy to shake her head slightly.

 _I could kill one warrior, or a few, but not a clan,_ she thought happily. _He cannot beat me for this._

"You will be punished for defying the will of the Warchief," Gul'dan said finally, containing his anger with the hissing of a snake. "You are not welcome within the Horde. This gift will unite the Horde in the way that no other could. Not you, not your precious shamans, no one. All will be one under the leadership of Blackhand of the Blackrock clan."

"Under _your_ leadership, perhaps," Durotan growled. Around him, the chieftains bristled, and while Garona knew that Durotan had only spoken the truth, it had nonetheless wounded the pride of his peers. She saw Doomhammer tense, and she shifted slightly, ready to move.

 _I won't let you hurt him, just to satisfy the pride of fools,_ Garona thought. _You turned your back on your closest friend. We all should be so lucky to have someone like Durotan._

The moment stretched, the very air thick with tension. Finally, Gul'dan spoke, and no one pretended that it was Blackhand's will, or any but Gul'dan's own. "Get out. Leave this place. The Horde need not such traitors as you."

 _Exile,_ Garona breathed. _He will live, and be far away from this war and Gul'dan's scheming. The Shadow Wolves will be safe._

"We will be more than happy to leave your dark reach forever," Durotan replied, and turned, striding towards the Shadow Wolves' camp, and in his wake trailed his clan, heads held high. Gul'dan watched this with ugly loathing, and forced himself to calm.

“Nekros,” he said. “Fetch more blood.”

Bowing, the apprentice did as he was bid. There were no more interruptions, and Garona watched as the blood was passed between chieftains, between warriors, but not to people like Griselda, and not to herself. Some glowered at her, as though daring her to complain. She met their anger with nothing visible, keeping her thoughts tucked in.

 _As though I would condemn myself as you would,_ she thought with contempt. She made note of those who accepted the blood, searing their folly into her mind. Less important was the fact that Doomhammer managed to avoid drinking it, and instead pushed his way through the crowd after Durotan while Blackhand and Gul'dan were distracted.

In the wake of the Shadow Wolves' exile, there was a celebration. They drank stinking alcoholic brews, heavy with spices, toasting over and over with 'demon's blood'. Those whose presence was missed were overshadowed by those that remained. With Durotan gone and Orgrim disappeared, Grom Hellscream's voice was louder than all others, toasted a dozen times.

 _You'd think they'd remember that he has not yet fought a single human or had his clan's blood spilled,_ Garona thought as she crouched in Gul'dan's great, dark tent. _All they see is a brave hero. I wonder if word will spread as far as Garadar of his so-called 'great deeds'._

“Garona,” Gul'dan snapped, drawing her attention to him once more. “The situation is well in hand. The last of the dissension is gone, and your services are needed elsewhere.”

 _Elsewhere?_ Garona wondered to herself, but said nothing, letting Gul'dan build up to it in his preferred dramatic fashion.

“The human, Medivh, holds back information from me,” Gul'dan said. “To Sargeras he may be bound, but demons have tongues that slip and slide like the slime creatures of this swamp.”

 _Snakes aren't actually slimy,_ Garona corrected silently, but nodded curtly. “What is your command?”

“You will go to Medivh's tower, Karazhan, and report back to me regarding what you find,” Gul'dan ordered. “You will pry Medivh's secrets from him, each one of them, and tell me of them. I would know all of it.”

“Do you wish me to remain unseen?” Garona asked, a sense of unease growing within her. _I know that I can hide from Gul'dan, but Medivh can hide from me._

“No,” Gul'dan said, startling her. “In fact, he has invited you to come to his tower as a guest. A liaison, he claims.” He snorted. “He wants to use you to gain information about me, I am certain of it.”

“So we're to give him what he wants?” Garona asked, and Gul'dan cuffed her sharply. The rebuke stung against her cheek, and she subsided, seething.

“You will give him nothing,” Gul'dan hissed. “Or as little as possible to satisfy his curiosity. Take everything, give nothing back. Do as you're told, girl.”

“As you command,” Garona whispered, and bowed her head.

~ * ~

“I wouldn't return to the orcs for some time,” Garona said. “Roughly three years. While I was gone, much would happen. The demon blood made the warriors very, very strong. Resistant to pain, harder to kill. They successfully attacked a number of human settlements. Redridge burned. Duskwood, less so, but Elwynn Forest, Northshire... refugees streamed into Stormwind and the great walls kept them safe. Believing themselves peerless, the Horde attacked Stormwind immediately.”

“They failed,” Thrall said. “They failed for those three years.”

“Yes,” Garona said quietly. She stopped walking, and Thrall took two steps more before stopping as well, turning to look at her. “So long as Llane Wrynn lived, Stormwind could never fall.”

“Will you tell me about it?” Thrall asked softly. “Of Karazhan?”

Garona remained silent for a time, then finally nodded, and began to walk again. “That's what it comes to, the story of the greatest mistake I have ever made.”

“I'm ready to listen,” Thrall said, and she nodded to him. “In your own time.”


	7. Chapter 7

_The humans are overly-trusting fools,_ Garona thought as she rode through Tower's Shadow Village on the back of a great, brown worg. Instead of fear, or anger, the villagers looked at her curiously and then turned to their business once more.

She had been to Karazhan before, briefly, delivering intelligence between Gul'dan's tent and Medivh's chambers. While they could speak mind to mind, sometimes one or the other would need maps or physical objects delivered instead of ideas, so she would serve as messenger. The villagers had seen her too, curious and nervous about her presence at first, but with Medivh’s blessing, they relaxed.

 _They trust this traitor,_ Garona thought as she rode towards Karazhan's base at a leisurely pace. The village itself had sprouted up around the great tower. Servants that kept Karazhan clean lived out in the village, rather than having quarters within the tower, and more villagers could be recruited to give the tower's lower floors thorough scrubbing.

Garona had never been permitted further inside than the first few floors.

“I live alone, surrounded by many,” Medivh had told her once when she had asked about it. “Not an unfamiliar state of being, I would think.”

 _No, not at all,_ Garona conceded now, when then she had simply stared at him until he'd chuckled and shooed her off. Now she had returned, a guest instead of a messenger.

“Good day to you, Miss Garona,” called one of the humans and her gaze snapped to him, her hand going to her knife. The man was older, grey of beard with wrinkles around his brown eyes and a smile. “Just going out to fetch some game. There's a stable for your wolf.”

“He's a worg, Huntsman Attumen,” Garona reminded him, and permitted herself a very small smile. “What is it this time, more rabbit?”

He made a face. “We're hoping for venison, if Midnight here doesn't scare all the deer off.” He patted the large horse, and she nuzzled at his hand. “Take care.”

She nodded to the human and made her way to the stable. There were dozens of horses here, some young, skinny, and eager, others old and thick and quiet. All of the village's horses were tended to by Medivh's stablemasters, sparing the villagers a great deal of expense.

 _Of course, if anyone wants to leave, it means going under Medivh's nose to fetch one,_ Garona thought. _But the humans are trusting._

This was not the first time the stablehands had seen her worg, and as she dismounted, she handed her reins to a blonde girl with a dirt-smeared face, and she offered the worg meat. He licked at her palm and the girl giggled.

“Just the roight amount o' meat, eh?” the girl said, and Garona nodded slightly to her.

“It's all about the right bribe,” Garona replied. The human tongue was easy to learn, smoother, less guttural than orcish. _Easier to be friendly in it._ She took her pack from the worg and slung it over her back before letting the girl take him away. Garona made her way through the stables into the mud room. She set her pack down for a moment, shucked off her riding cloak and hung it up, then took off her riding boots and left them to be cleaned, instead putting on a pair of leather shoes, soft-soled and silent. _Someone will do it too,_ she thought, still marvelling at the idea. _And no one expects me to._

From the mud room, she made her way into the kitchen. It was as though she’d been struck in the face with heat, movement, and sound. The cooks were busy. Tower's Shadow Village had no bakery either, no butcher's shop. Instead, Karazhan provided these things too, and those who wanted bread and meat could come to the kitchens for food. Garona raised a hand, silent, in greeting, and was immediately handed two freshly baked rolls, rich with butter.

 _They don't know,_ Garona mused, biting into one, and gave herself the reward of a soft noise at the delicious taste. _None of them know what their master is like._

Past the kitchen was the great dining room. Garona could see servants cleaning it, polishing the tables, wiping the walls and the high, painted ceiling clear of dust. Never had it been in use when she had visited previously. She cleared her throat. “Is there to be a party?”

“Soon,” one of the maids said, giving her a gape-toothed grin. “And a big ol' opree.”

“An opera?” Garona repeated. “What's opera?”

“Oh, with the singin' and the wailin' and the dancin' and the dyin',” the maid said. “Nothin' unusual.”

 _Humans are very strange,_ Garona decided. “Very well.”

Garona continued through the dining room, and made her way to the ballroom. Just as the dining room was being cleaned, so too was the ballroom, from the upraised platform where the orchestra played to the four beautiful columns that stretched up to the ceiling like grasping hands.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” Medivh commented, and Garona spun to face him. “Hello, Garona. It's good to see you again.”

“And you,” Garona said, gruffly. “You wanted me here.”

“I did,” the human traitor said, smiling softly. “I am also expecting another guest soon, but he has not yet arrived. First, though, you should see the private guest rooms.” He gestured to the far side of the ballroom. “You've already seen the public ones.”

“I have, yes,” Garona said warily. “So, where are they?”

“Ah, that's the trick of it,” Medivh said lightly. “Even the cleverest of guests can't find them by accident, because you have to know how to find them.” Turning from her, Medivh strode towards a wall and disappeared through it.

Garona stared, then looked towards one of the men sweeping. He shrugged, and she ground her teeth.

 _Fine, then._ Setting her jaw, she marched towards the wall. She impacted against the wall at full speed and growled at it.

“There's no need to be angry,” Medivh said from behind the wall, and a pale, human hand appeared from it. “Come with me.”

Garona stared at the hand for a few moments before taking it, and he pulled her through. The corridor he stood in was dark and dusty, and she could see spiders crawling along the webs that hung from the low ceiling. She sniffed, and avoided a sneeze. “Do you not permit your slaves to come in here?”

“My servants,” Medivh corrected gently, “my protected villagers, need not clean every inch of my home to feel useful. They only interact with my public face.”

“Do they know that all of this is just a clever illusion?” Garona demanded as Medivh led her through the corridor, not releasing her hand. “That on top of beauty is nothing but ugly lies?”

“Do you tell everyone your deepest secrets, my dear?” Medivh asked curiously, and Garona growled.

“Don't call me that,” she said. “No, of course not.”

“My apologies, Miss Halforcen,” the sorcerer replied. “Just as you do not speak of all your secrets, so too do I choose to keep mine hidden.” They were silent for a time as their path twisted up and up, until Medivh put his hand on another wall, and pulled Garona through to the other side.

This hallway was not as filthy as the hidden one, but neither was it as sparkling and pristine as the floors below. Instead, it was a comforting sort of grimy, feeling lived in, and, in an odd way, much like the orcish villages in Nagrand.

“Welcome to my most humble abode,” Medivh said, smiling broadly. He released her hand to gesture around him. “These are the upper corridors of the tower available to special guests. There are further chambers, some hidden, some merely difficult to find. I'm sure you'll acquaint yourself with them.”

“I'm sure I will,” Garona said. “Where am I to stay?”

“This way,” Medivh said, leading Garona along the corridor, his pace rapid. Garona only had a moment to glance into the rooms before she had to hurry to keep up. Finally, Medivh stopped in front of a door – a real door – and opened it. Garona peered into the room, her eyes widening.

The room had a single, narrow bed with a black and white quilt, its edges turned down for an expected guest. The bed had a pile of pillows, soft and fluffy by their look, and was tucked against the wall. On that wall was a large window, the dark curtains pulled back, and the window's ledge seemed wide enough to sit on, and it was expected, judging by the white cushion placed on one side of the window. There was a bookshelf that spanned the whole of one wall, and there were dozens of books on it.

 _I wonder what hide humans use to bind their books,_ Garona mused as she spotted the small closet and set of drawers crammed off to one side. There were a handful of books sitting on top of the chest of drawers as well.

“This is your room,” Medivh said. “I've taken the liberty of adding some books that you may enjoy.”

“I cannot read the human tongue,” Garona pointed out. “I understand it well enough, but your maps only have place names on them. This may as well be nonsense.”

“Well, then, you'll have to find someone to teach you, won't you?” Medivh said mildly. “Get settled, and I'll see you at dinner.” Without another word, the human vanished as though he had never been there at all.

Growling under her breath, Garona threw her pack onto the bed, slammed the door, and began to make herself at home.

~ * ~

Three days later, Garona found herself sitting in one of the huge book-rooms – _the library,_ she reminded herself – puzzling over human writing. It had been three days of exploring the two floors she had access to and her wanderings had brought her here.

 _This place's shadows are strange,_ Garona thought as she ran her fingers gently along the page. Humans used symbols too, but they were different. They were smaller and simpler than most orc symbols, and conveyed less. A symbol that was a circle with a short line on the right side didn't mean one thing, it could stand on its own, or be at the beginning of a string of symbols, or somewhere in the middle, or at the end. _How did they create such things, such words?_

It was a puzzle to her, and it was one at her fingertips. The shadows here did not welcome her, there was no path through which she could stride from one place to the other, but she could sit here, at this wooden table, and on this wooden chair, with her fingers brushing over soft paper. She could speak human words aloud and try to guess which string of symbols matched which stream of sound.

 _If only I had someone to ask,_ Garona thought, frustrated. The first night at Karazhan had brought a great feast. Humans ate in 'courses', separating out the different parts of a meal according to type and taste. It was a luxury that had amazed her, since previously she'd only taken what she needed and then continued on.

She had not been alone with Medivh either. There had been guests, many, many guests. They had talked a great deal and stared at her a great deal more, and Garona's awareness had drifted between conversations. Only rarely did they discuss the war that raged, that had already cost the orcs much, and would in time cost the humans so much more. Instead, they discussed the opera they were to see later in the evening.

Opera, as she would come to learn, was a great story told in song by a group of people on stage. They would dress up, and the scenery would change, and the story would progress. Names were bandied around, and Garona knew none of them, but by reading expressions, she could tell that some of those in the opera were well-loved, while others were very new, or somewhat too old to do their part justice, or unsuited to what they needed to do. The opera itself was... loud. Garona hadn't understood the words, but from the expressions on the faces of others, this was normal. Instead, she listened to the emotion. There was pain, joy, sadness, anger, and triumph. There was dancing and there were bright, elaborate costumes.

 _If there had been more drumming and foot-pounding, it could be one of the great story-circles,_ Garona thought. _I wonder if operas ever have duels with swords and axes._ The opera had been, largely, entertaining, but Medivh had disappeared partway through it, and she had had no time to ask him anything, nor had he appeared at breakfast the next day – which was a good deal less complex of an affair – and she had only been given instructions to look around from the butler, Moroes.

Look around she had, and around, and around. She found more modest bedrooms, similar to her own, though none of them had more than a small handful of books inside them and one had the same turned-down quilt edge that she was greeted with on that first day.

 _For the visitor,_ she mused, carefully turning the page. The next one had a picture, an image of Azeroth's sky at night, though with lines drawn between the stars. _Now, this word starts with a symbol that is a sideways version of this other symbol, what--_

“Oh, there have got to be books somewhere,” she heard from out in the hallway, and her head snapped up. That wasn't Medivh's voice, and her hand went to her dagger, drawing it out slowly, the whisper of steel against cloth.

If the speaker intended to be careful, they gave no sign of it, because a moment later, after the door handle rattled briefly, it opened. There was a human, his hair short and cinnamon brown, and his eyes green and lively as they saw the shelves of books first, and then his expression changed again entirely as he saw Garona.

“Orc!” he cried, and pointed a finger at her. Fire grew at his fingertips and when it was the size of a fist he hurled it at her. Garona's eyes narrowed, and she leaped aside, the fire crashing into her chair, sending pieces of flaming debris into the air.

“Warlock,” she snarled, and jumped at him. He held up a hand to protect himself, and her sword came down, meeting a shield made of fire that skipped and skittered around him. He pushed at her, scorching her clothes and she retreated, only to run at the shelves, scattering books everywhere as she sought higher ground and in turn, he struck at her with bolts of purple energy, bright, harsh and unfamiliar to her.

“I don't know how you got in here, but you won't last long!” he promised. “Just stay still.”

“Not likely,” she told him, and grabbed for one of the great globes, throwing it at him. He squawked, birdlike, as it struck him and slammed him back into the other shelves. _Now then, if I can just--_

“Enough!”

Garona found herself frozen, suspended in midair, staring down at her target. The human was similarly frozen, awkwardly pressed against the shelves of books, a look of surprise and confusion on his face. She could not twitch her fingers, and neither throw nor drop her sword. Her opponent was similarly frozen in place, conjuring no spells. Instead, all either of them could do was breathe shallowly and let their eyes turn to the source of the command, and indeed the magic that held them.

Medivh stood in the doorway, clad in brown robes, covering him from his neck to the tips of his fingers, the sleeves loose and wide. He had a stern look on his face, and despite the fact she couldn't move, Garona squirmed. From the look on his face, the human pressed against the shelves felt similarly.

“Khadgar,” Medivh began, and beneath his mild tone, there was another emotion Garona couldn't quite identify. It felt like a sadder kind of anger. “Garona is a guest of mine. She is no raiding party, no invading army. The nobles of Duskwood were kind enough to sit and eat with her on Moon's Day, and they did not start any fires over it.”

A flick of her gaze saw that there was indeed a fire, but whatever Medivh had done to them had expanded to the budding flames as well, and they were frozen in place, a thing that would be pretty were it not so dangerous. Books tended to burn easily. The traitor shifted his attention, looking her over.

“Garona, this is Khadgar, my new apprentice,” Medivh continued. “He has come here all the way from Dalaran to learn from me. He is, in fact, one of their youngest graduates to date and he is quite proud of himself, usually. I had hoped that the two of you could see fit to get along, to perhaps enjoy what Karazhan has to offer. It would seem that it is not to be. I am very disappointed in both of you.”

 _He attacked me!_ Garona protested silently. _You didn't tell him I was here, and I didn't know who was coming!_ She said nothing, of course, could say nothing. It was odd, but though she felt as though she had angered Medivh, there was none of Gul'dan's rage about him. Just that sad anger. _Disappointed, he called it._

“I expect the pair of you, if you do not care for each other, to at least be civil to one another,” Medivh continued, looking between the two of them. “You will have the chance to put this to the test. I expect you to clean and repair all of this by the end of the day.”

Without another word, Medivh closed the door. Garona abruptly fell out of the air, but she managed to land smoothly, sheathing her sword in one motion. Khadgar was less graceful, and fell to the floor in a heap. A dozen of the books that had been jarred loose from the shelves fell on his shoulders and into his lap, while two landed on his head. He cursed softly.

Garona turned her back on him deliberately and turned to the fires. The smallest she stamped out, crushing splintered wood down, though her eyes widened in concern at some of the larger ones. Magic shivered around her, and she looked back to see Khadgar raising a hand, and a soft smattering of white falling on the flames, smothering them.

“What is that?” she asked impulsively, and the apprentice made a face as he pushed himself upright.

“It's frost,” he replied shortly. “We have work to do.”

She glared at him and began to collect the damp pieces of wood, trying to spot the book she’d been reading amongst the mess. She created a pile, uncertain what to do with the fragments of what had once been the table and chair. Instead, she went looking for her book and was dismayed to find its pages singed and discoloured.

 _Well, now how will I figure it out?_ She set the book down, and looked around. Khadgar was muttering to himself, and she caught 'orc' and 'not his fault' from it. She made a face. “I'm not an orc.”

“Oh, really?” he replied, glaring at her. “You certainly look like one.”

“No orc would recognize me as such,” she spat back, bitterness tinging each word. “I'm _halforcen_ , do you know what that means, ignorant fool? It means that the moment anyone looks at me, they see all the parts of me that are wrong. If I can't be one of them, I won't take the hate meant for them.”

Khadgar was silent for a moment, then his expression twisted. “I'm not a warlock. I'm a mage, a wizard of Dalaran, first of my class. Warlocks are evil and filthy. They worship demons and they destroy things that are good.”

“Dress it up in whatever titles you like,” Garona retorted. “You called fire and did destroy good things. Look at this!” She shoved the book at him. “I couldn't read it before, but I sure as hell can't read it now!”

“Oh, for the love of--” Khadgar grabbed for the book, wrenching it from her grip. Garona growled at him, but watched as he murmured softly to himself, and it reminded her of the opera. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as the burns faded, healing as though it had never been damaged. Garona touched at her arm briefly, remembering the pain and the scars.

“How did you do that?” Garona asked. “Where did the healing come from?”

“Within,” Khadgar replied, and pushed the book at her. “We have more work to do.”

Garona made a noise in the back of her throat and took the book, setting it aside on top of one of the low shelves before going towards the bookshelves. Several of them were splintered and broken, while others only heaved under the weight of the books. Carefully, reverently, she took the books off of the shelves and set them in piles on the floor.

Meanwhile, Khadgar was looking ruefully over the table and chair. “This is done for,” he muttered. “Not without a greater ritual of repair, and I don't have _any_ spider's web or fire ash.” He kicked lightly at the remains.

“What about the shelves, mage?” Garona asked, irritated that he was scattering her pile. “Stop that and come here.”

“Don't order me around, halforcen,” Khadgar replied shortly, and went over to examine the shelves. “Can't you do any of this?”

“Do you see wood anywhere, or nails, or a hammer?” Garona asked, stepping away from him, over to the other shelves. These, too, needed to have the books moved, and she found the pieces of the globe she'd thrown at him. “I don't know _magic_.”

“Hmph,” Khadgar said, and repaired each of the shelves. “Then why are you here?”

“I am a _guest_ ,” she growled. “Not a child, not a student. A guest.”

“I'm not a child, I'm nineteen,” Khadgar said stiffly. “Recognized by the Council of Six as a fully trained mage.”

“Recognized as a child,” Garona muttered. She carried the pieces of the globe over to the pile with the table and chair, looking over what remained. There were place names, shapes she recognized and others she did not. _Such a strange language._

They worked in silence for a time, Khadgar repairing shelves and Garona moving books from place to place, sometimes setting aside those that were damaged, and then as she waited for him to work, she moved the debris from the broken furniture into the hallway. When she returned, Khadgar had finished his repair work, and was placing books on shelves after checking them for something.

 _He can read them, obviously, but I don't know how he's doing it,_ Garona thought. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, and began copying him, looking for some kind of identifying mark. As the minutes passed, she began to line the books on the shelves based purely on size.

“What are you doing?” Khadgar demanded. “You're putting them all out of order.”

“As though I knew what order that was in the first place,” Garona muttered. “Well, how are you doing it?”

“By subject, then by title and author,” Khadgar said stiffly. “Obviously. Any lettered person would know--”

“What the hell is a 'letter'?” Garona demanded. “You humans have all manner of strange shapes you scribble onto everything.”

“You don't know how to read?” Khadgar asked, wonderingly. “How savage.”

“I know how to read my _own_ language, fool,” Garona said stiffly. “I've only been here for three days. I doubt you know what my language even sounds like.”

He stared at her for a long while, and she glared back at him. Finally, he sighed. “Alright, what was it you were trying to look at before?”

“This one,” Garona replied, placing the book in her hand on the shelf and then crossing to where she'd placed the book she'd been attempting to read. “It had interesting pictures.”

Khadgar snorted softly, and looked around. “There are some cushions over there.”

“Cushions?” Garona said dubiously. “I'm not old.”

“Well, we don't have the chairs for either of us to sit down, so we'll be old together,” Khadgar retorted, plucking the book from her hands and walking towards them, leaving Garona to chase after him. The cushions were soft, and smelled a little of smoke, and the next few minutes was spent finding a comfortable way to sit next to each other without actually touching.

“Give it back, I want to hold it,” Garona insisted, and Khadgar handed it to her. She opened the book carefully, and turned to the first page. “Start here.”

“A map of the constellations of southern Azeroth,” Khadgar read aloud. “That's what groupings of stars are called, constellations.”

“I knew that,” Garona said, though she didn't. “How can you tell what they say?”

“Well, they're words. They're made up of letters. A-M-A-P--”

“That's not an A, that's an A,” Garona said, pointing. “Look, they're different.”

“That's an A and that's an A,” Khadgar corrected her. “One of them is capitalized, the other isn't.”

“What's 'capitalized'?” Garona demanded. “How does one of these letters get to be capitalized?”

“Oh, this is going to take a long time,” Khadgar groaned, and she leaned in to pinch him. He slapped at her hand, and the page creased. Both froze, looking from the page to each other and back again.

It was three hours later that Medivh came looking for them, with Garona leaning into Khadgar, her finger tapping the pages as Khadgar fought to answer her rapid-fire questions. Garona couldn't be sure, but she suspected Medivh was smiling.

~ * ~

Khadgar was at breakfast the next morning, bleary-eyed and nibbling on toast. He was so groggy that he failed to notice that Moroes was filling his cup of coffee and pulled it towards him. Garona watched as the deft human servant neatly avoided scalding Khadgar's fingers as Medivh's latest guest took a sip, winced at the taste, and put the cup back down. Moroes finished filling the cup, added two spoonfuls of sugar, and then continued on down the line.

“More coffee, Mistress?” the human asked deferentially, and Garona started, realizing he meant her.

“Please,” Garona said, and Moroes filled her mug as well. She sniffed at it warily. “It smells bitter.”

“A little hair of the magician's beard to alleviate the effects of late night reading sessions,” Medivh said suddenly, and appeared at the table. Garona nearly spilled her cup. “Good morning, children.”

“Good morning, Master Medivh,” Moroes said. “Your usual will be ready in just a moment.”

“Thank you, Moroes,” Medivh replied, and sat. “I'd think you would be used to people who come and go very suddenly,” he said lightly. “Careful with that, it's still quite hot.”

“How do you do that?” Garona demanded, and glanced over at Khadgar, who was still chewing mechanically. “Normally I can... tell.”

“I'm afraid I'm not what you're used to,” Medivh said. “But you've seen the trick before.”

Garona nodded uneasily. “That still doesn't answer the how.”

“Targeted teleportation points,” Khadgar said, without losing the vacant expression on his face. “A powerful mage, such as an Archmage with a decade’s worth of experience, can cast silently and without ritual. The Council regulates teleportation strictly before that time.”

“Age is little in the face of power, or wisdom,” Medivh said. “I've been doing it for quite some time.”

“Rules are in place for a specific reason,” Khadgar said, and ran his fingers through his hair, shaking himself a little. “To prevent teleportation fragmentation and other incidents.”

 _Teleportation is moving from one place to the other, and fragmentation is breaking things into fragments, which are small pieces, which are--_ Garona's eyes grew wide with horror, and she looked at Medivh, who only chuckled.

“Which is why you've been reading up on all of those teleportation techniques, for your next decade,” Medivh rebuked, and looked to Garona. “It only happens rarely, because most mages simply can't manage it. Not strong enough, not honed enough.”

“Some people,” Khadgar put in, “don't follow the rules. Some people who are also very powerful.”

“Rules are meant to be broken by those who understand that they are best treated as guidelines,” Medivh replied. “Also, I don't follow Dalaran's rules. I'm not a member of the Kirin Tor. The Six has no power over me.”

“Should we be talking about this with...” Khadgar indicated Garona, and she made a face at him. “Company?”

“I trust Garona as much as I trust you,” Medivh said lightly, and Garona concealed a wince. “Speaking of which, we should perform proper introductions. Start the day off right, I feel.” Moroes came in with a plate holding a curious mass of yellow, red, and white and Medivh smiled. “This is an omelet, Garona,” he said. “This is egg, and this is red pepper and onion. It's quite nice, I recommend it.” He let Moroes fill his cup and nodded. For a little while, he was silent, cutting into the 'omelet' and drinking his coffee.

Garona noted that Khadgar was becoming more alert and focused, watching Medivh, waiting for the promised introductions. As time stretched, and the omelet disappeared – and so too did coffee, which Garona was growing fond of -- the young human shifted in his seat. “Archmage.”

“Apprentice,” Medivh replied, taking a sip of coffee.

“Is the delay in introductions a lesson in patience that I am currently failing?” Khadgar asked, trying – and failing – to conceal his irritation. Garona gave him a look of pity and disdain.

 _Medivh will slap him back into place,_ she thought. _Gul'dan would._

“Not every inconvenience is a lesson,” Medivh said instead, his tone mild. “I simply wanted my breakfast. Since you seem so eager, I shall make them. Khadgar, this is Garona Halforcen. She comes to us from the orcs in the east. Due to her unique heritage, she is something of an outcast within her own society, but possesses a unique ability that I would like to see honed to a greater extent.”

“Unique, hm?” Khadgar said. “What heritage would that be?”

“Draenei,” Garona answered quickly, before Medivh could say anything. _Mother always said her people were hiding on Draenor from the demons. If Medivh knows, he could tell the demons, and--_ “It's unusual.”

“Hm,” Khadgar said again, nodding. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” Garona muttered, and took a sip of coffee.

“Garona's social status makes her an excellent courier, scout, and even a scholar,” Medivh said, smiling. Garona felt her cheeks heat. “As well as a spy.”

Garona choked briefly, and Khadgar sputtered. Moroes cleared plates away calmly, and carried them out of the dining room. “You can't--”

“Garona is my guest, and I have invited her here with purpose,” Medivh said. “As I said, I want to hone her natural gifts, as she may find the need to use them. Also...” His gaze fell to Garona, pinning her in place. “While she is a spy, her master will only know what I want him to know.”

Garona nodded slightly, and looked down at her coffee mug.

“Garona, this is Khadgar,” Medivh continued, as if the revelation had not happened. “Khadgar is a graduate of the Violet Citadel, which is the premier Mage Academy within the human kingdoms, though it hosts non-human students as well. He has elected to continue his education as an Archmage, which affords both more power and more responsibility as well as a title, though to become an Archmage, he must study under one. I have accepted his petition to have him as my apprentice and continue his education.”

“First of his class,” Garona muttered, and Khadgar flushed with pride. “At lighting books on fire.”

“Indeed,” Medivh said, chuckling, as Khadgar's cheeks took on a darker colour. “He came with the full recommendation of the ruling council of mages in Dalaran, who are simply referred to as the Six, which were quite impressive to read, I must say. Your teachers must have been very proud of you.”

“They were, Archmage, they--”

“Khadgar is also a spy,” Medivh continued swiftly, and Garona stared at Khadgar, who had gone from flushed to pale with alarming speed. “Do you think I'm quite unaware that the Six do not trust me, here by my lonesome, out and far away from their supervision? They distrust me nearly as much as they distrusted the previous Guardian.”

“No one would suspect you of being a spy,” Garona observed, and Khadgar gave her a dark look.

“Why is that?”

“Because you're an idiot,” Garona said, and looked to Medivh. “What's a Guardian?”

“Don't be too hard on him, he's an idiot because he's been poorly trained,” Medivh said, and Khadgar sputtered. “One of my titles, and I have a few, is the Guardian of Tirisfal. It is a privilege afforded only to a small number of mages over the course of history, and fewer still considering the reign of the previous Guardian.” Garona detected a hint of bitterness under the calm tone and warm smile, and made a note of it. “The Tirisfalen usually choose the Guardian and dictate their movements, but such was... avoided in my case.”

“Who do you answer to, then?” Garona asked, studying him. He seemed no different than he had during their previous meetings, as though the strength and freedom he wore meant little to him. _I wonder if he even understands how lucky he is._

Medivh gave her a slight nod, as if knowing her very mind. “In theory, I answer to two people. The ruler of Stormwind and the previous Guardian. I regularly receive missives from Dalaran's council and the Tirisfalen, and I answer them as I deem appropriate. Not every dead goat is a demon.”

 _Demon._ Garona flinched, and forced herself to remember Medivh was a traitor to his own people.

“I don't answer to the Tirisfalen,” Khadgar said finally, sulky. “They don't speak to one such as me. I answer to the Six.”

“I never claimed that you did, boy,” Medivh said mildly. “As I said, you're a spy for the Six, and I will tell you what I told Garona. You have skills I want to hone, and so I shall. Your masters will know exactly what I want them to know and nothing more. I will have my secrets, but I also have much that I want to share with you. If you will accept these terms, you may stay. If not, you will leave. After breakfast.”

Khadgar and Garona exchanged a look. _I can't give Gul'dan nothing, I will never be allowed to stay. If I tell him what he wants to hear... and perhaps I will learn enough to placate him._ From the look on his face, Khadgar was thinking the same thing.

“I agree,” Khadgar said first, and Garona echoed him.

“Excellent,” Medivh said. “Then we can begin.”

The words felt like a portent of things to come, and thrilled Garona to her very core.


	8. Chapter 8

“He's kidding,” Khadgar groaned for the fifth time in as many minutes. “Absolutely joking.”  
  
“Shut up,” Garona snapped. “He is your master, and you must learn what he teaches you.”  
  
“He's your master too, now,” Khadgar replied. “Help me with this.”  
  
Garona crossed to his side swiftly. When she had first seen the library, she had believed that it contained more books than she could possibly read in a lifetime. That, as it turned out, was only the smallest of Medivh's three libraries. After breakfast, Medivh had led the pair of them, still caught up in a sense of wonder and awe at their status as apprentices to a Guardian, to a locked door and opened it.  
  
“It needs some work,” Medivh had said, smiling fondly. “Since you already have experience with it, I thought it would be best for you to do the cleaning.”  
  
Garona had stared into a room that was easily as big as one of the great halls within Karabor. The room had a high, painted ceiling and huge windows made of multicoloured glass, or so it seemed behind the streaks of dirt and the liberal amounts of dust everywhere. Khadgar's gaze had been caught by the stacks of books that lay haphazardly on the floor like perilous wizard's towers themselves.  
  
“Good luck,” Medivh had said, and shut the door on them, shaking loose dust. One of the piles had teetered over, and had only narrowly been saved by Garona's swift reflexes.   
  
Since then, they had been occupied by their task. First, Garona had created more stacks of books, halving the size of each. Khadgar's first task was to cast a series of spells to clean the dirt from the windows and the dust from the ceiling where they could not reach, and then to start more mundanely wiping down shelves and moving books. Garona examined each page and cover, setting the damaged books aside for Khadgar to repair once he was done with his task. She wiped the dust from the covers, setting those aside in a different pile. It was not a difficult task, just a time consuming one, and unworthy of a pair of apprentices to a great mage.  
  
“How could it have gotten this bad?” Khadgar muttered to himself. “He hasn't lived here that long.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Garona asked, her eyes lighting on images of long-eared humans with upswept brows.  _No, elves. He called them elves._  
  
“The great tower of Karazhan was only built two decades ago,” Khadgar said. “A little before I was born. Supposedly, there was a great impact – a meteorite – that broke the mountain pass and flattened the area. It caused a surge in the ley lines that required urgent capping. The Guardian, Medivh, ordered the tower built there. According to the texts I've read about it, he helped build it himself. A village built up around it, at first for those who worked on it and their families and then others who wanted to live protected by the greatest mage of our time.” Khadgar sounded wistful as he spoke. “I wanted to see what it looked like for myself.”  
  
“What do you think now that you've seen it?” Garona asked.  
  
“It's impressive,” Khadgar said. “Large and impressive. I'd been told the Guardian was very reclusive, refusing any application to apprenticeship and ignoring all requests to visit Dalaran in person, but... there are so many  _people_ here.”  
  
“It's very busy,” Garona said. “And loud. You missed the opera.”  
  
“There will be others, at least one a season,” Khadgar said. “Though they're exclusive events, open only to the local nobility. I've heard the previous King attended them until the war started--” He eyed Garona. “--and the new one not at all.”  
  
“Chieftains may lose their lives at any time,” Garona replied. “I didn't kill him. Adamant Wrynn. He was caught by one of the raiding parties.”  
  
Khadgar was silent for a little while. “We thought the reports from Azeroth were exaggerated. The nobles here have a poor reputation.”  
  
“They seemed polite enough,” Garona said. “They talk a great deal.”  
  
“They hold a wine glass in one hand and a poisoned dagger behind their backs, is what I've always heard,” Khadgar said. “The Wrynns seized control after the fall of the House of Baewyn, their predecessors. Warren Baewyn was referred to as the Daemon-King, and he was said to be a tyrant. House Wrynn overthrew him and seized the throne.”  
  
“That seems just,” Garona said. “Overthrowing a tyrant and seeing him fall.”  
  
“It does, but that's only the latest example. The Baewyns ruled for four generations, and then the Viroths for three before that,” Khadgar said. “Both Houses were wiped out completely. Other noble houses have supported the various ruling houses, and people don't forget who stood beside a tyrant, nodding and smiling.”  
  
Garona recalled the meetings of the chieftains with a frown. “Some are too weak to disagree with a strong voice and a stronger fist.”  
  
“Weakness doesn't eliminate danger,” Khadgar pointed out. “It's the real trouble with monarchy, I feel. Especially here.”  
  
“Kings and Queens are monarchs, aren't they?” Garona guessed. “Instead of Chieftains and Greatmothers?”  
  
“I suppose so, yes,” Khadgar said, looking at her curiously.  
  
“A chieftain leads a clan,” Garona said. “Sometimes it's passed on from blood to blood, other times it's fought over. The Greatmothers are the mates and advisers to chieftains.”  
  
“What about if a chieftain is female?” Khadgar asked. “Do they have an advising Greatfather?”  
  
“More often than not, a female chieftain's mate isn't needed for advising,” Garona said. “Or their most useful advice is ‘I could do better’.”  
  
Khadgar snorted. “That sounds like the monarchies here, where the Kings have Queens, but the Queens have Prince-Consorts.”  
  
“But Dalaran has no kings or queens,” Garona said. “You have the Six.”  
  
“Yes,” Khadgar replied, wiping a cloud of dust from one of the shelves. Garona held back a sneeze. “Though we have two councils. There's the People's Council, that rules over all the non-mages in the city, along with all the villages around Dalaran. People from each district are voted on – do you know what a vote is?”  
  
“Yes,” Garona said. “We vote and elect chieftains too, when we want no bloodshed. We voted for our Warchief, for all the good it did us.” She snorted, though she remembered with a shiver the council of chieftains and the demon's blood.  
  
“Right,” Khadgar said, giving her a curious look before going back to his task. “The People's Council controls the majority of mundane affairs, including trade with other nations. Mages sometimes marry mages, but not always, so their families need a voice too.”  
  
“Hm,” Garona said.  _So these warlocks – mages – value the counsel of those who do not have magic. Curious._  She tried to imagine Gul'dan asking the opinions of the warriors who guarded him and could not.  _Of the warriors I have met, only Durotan would consider asking the farmers how they felt about any given situation. These mages are very curious._  
  
“The Six are elected from amongst the Archmages of Dalaran. Usually only the very oldest can be chosen, which makes them frequently also the most intractable.” Khadgar made a face. “They gave me a great list of things I was to ask about, and then send them the answers..”  
  
“They should have picked someone more subtle,” Garona said. “So there are no young archmages? Are they all humans?”  
  
“You were caught too,” Khadgar reminded her, grumbling. “Not exactly, and no. There are some archmages that are younger than others, and the elves never look particularly old. Archmage Krasus Goldenmist has been on the council for at least a century, but he doesn't look much older than twenty or thirty. I think Archmage Modera is only in her forties. Though mages live for a long time too. Archmage Antonidas is the leader of the council at the moment, and he's as old as the hills, or so some claim.” He snorted, as if to show what he thought of the idea, and then sighed. “He hasn't taken an apprentice in three decades. He's frequently busy, and I think only a special case would bestir him.”  
  
“If he'd taken you, you wouldn't be here,” Garona pointed out. “Surely that means something.”  
  
“Oh yes, it means something,” Khadgar grumbled. “It means I wouldn't be here, cleaning dirty books, getting thrown into bookshelves, and getting outed as a spy.”  
  
“A bad spy,” Garona reminded him again. “He'd met me before, that's why he knew.”  
  
“And who are you spying for, anyway? This Warchief of yours?”  
  
Garona wrinkled her nose in distaste. “He's no Warchief of mine, I didn't want him, even if I'd had a voice to speak. Only the chieftains chose him, and the council.”  
  
“But what is he? A general?”  
  
“A great fool,” Garona said, spitefully, though the anger was a strange relief.  _That felt good, and who will he tell?_  “He is called Blackhand the Destroyer, and he leads the Blackrock Clan, and before that, the Stonefist Clan. As Warchief he commands every clan, not just his own, to battle. He coordinates the clans and they fight for him.”  
  
“I can't imagine the human nations getting on with each other well enough to make such an alliance, so there's that,” Khadgar mused. “While there's a great deal of nuance within any nation, generally, Dalaran can't stand Stromgarde, Gilneas can't stand Kul Tiras, Alterac is a miserable ice bucket, Azeroth doesn't get on well with anyone, and no one likes Lordaeron. That's not even counting the elves or the dwarves, though I think the gnomes might not mind anyone much, and then there are the trolls and the goblins. It would probably take a monumental disaster for them all to agree to anything.”  
  
“Or a great threat,” Garona pointed out.  _That's something I could tell Gul'dan. That there are other human nations and they're too fractured to ally together as we did, for all he pulled the strings, but... do I want to?_  It was a curious thing. She had not been here long, and for all she had fought with Khadgar the moment he'd spotted her, he hadn't treated her like a casual threat. He'd seen she was dangerous and acted accordingly.  _Also, he's teaching me to read the human tongue,_  Garona thought. “Why do they hate each other so?”  
  
“Long ago, all the human tribes were one,” Khadgar said, examining the bookshelf, then reinforcing it before moving on to the next. “Under Thoradin of Arathor, first king of the Arathi. I thought he might be like your Warchief, but he was no fool. He realized that if humans spent all of their time fighting one another, they'd die to the trolls that raided them frequently.”  
  
“There have been clan wars,” Garona said. “There was one not long before we opened the great portal to your world. When we can't fight the draenei, we fight each other.”  
  
“Your... mother's people?” Khadgar guessed, and then his eyes widened. “I...  _oh_ , I'm sorry--”  
  
“Talk about Thoradin,” Garona advised, looking down at her book pile.  _Too close, and too..._  She had not thought of her mother in so long, it hurt.  
  
“Right. Thoradin.” Khadgar took a deep breath. “He did have to defeat the other tribal chieftains, but instead of killing them or seizing the survivors, he negotiated with them. The defeated tribesmen joined his own clan, the Arathi, until all tribes were one. He ordered them to found a city near the Great Sea, the city of Strom. That was when the elves came to teach the humans magic and recruit their aid to fight the trolls.”  
  
“Magic in exchange for axes,” Garona hazarded, and he nodded. “Mages are taught, then, like warlocks. They aren't born that way, as shamans are.”  
  
“Shamans are--” Khadgar frowned. “I read about them. Tribal elemental mages, that speak with the so-called ghosts of rocks and plants.”  
  
“Spirits, not ghosts,” Garona corrected him. “There are shamans here? How?”  
  
“I don't know, they don't come to Dalaran,” Khadgar said. “Mostly it's the dwarves and the trolls, but it was said before there were mages and cities, there were shamans and tribes. The elves even have nature mages of another kind, the ancient druids.”  
  
Garona frowned. “I don't know what a druid is, though they sound like shamans. What's the difference?”  
  
“The ability to turn into a tree, I think,” Khadgar replied. “In any case, the elf-taught mages weren't particularly popular. Many feared their new abilities, though Thoradin remained true to his word and they were welcome in his city.”  
  
“Which lasted until he died or was killed, because that's how these kinds of things work,” Garona guessed sardonically, carefully working through her pile of books and moving on to the next. “Then what happened?”  
  
“Thoradin didn't have an heir,” Khadgar said. “And the old chieftains, now lords, kicked the mages out, along with their families and supporters, or they intended to. They claim the order was never given and the mages left first, before they could be kicked out. In any case, they intended on creating a better place than they'd left.”  
  
“And that's how Dalaran came to be.” Garona nodded to herself a little. “What about this Guardian?”  
  
“They learned early that too much magic concentrated in the same place was dangerous, just as dangerous as the Arathi had feared. They consulted with the elves, who had constructed themselves a magical kingdom protected by enchanted runestones. They suggested that we should exercise restraint.” Khadgar rolled his eyes. “Meanwhile, they were setting up a society that involved no physical labour on their part, magical defenses, and weather control.”  
  
“So in response, your people said, 'you first'?” Garona guessed and Khadgar laughed.  
  
“I'm sure it was said, but they decided on a different approach. They met in Tirisfal, which had been the first landing site of the elves in these lands, and appointed a great Guardian, one who would maintain the balance. Since then, all mages tithe some of their power to the Guardian to keep them strong, and in return, the Guardian keeps Dalaran and all of the lands of mages safe. This became more complicated when humanity started dividing further.”  
  
“Further?” Garona frowned. “You did say there were other clans. Countries.”  
  
“Yes,” Khadgar said. “In Strom, a group of younger, more ambitious nobles wanted to head to a more hospitable, pleasant location. They also left, settled around Lake Lordamere, and founded Lordaeron. Still others went further north along the coast, to Gilneas. This left the city of Strom, renamed Stromgarde, to the old and the traditional. Those who conformed remained, and those who didn't became viewed as progressive by their own, and reckless and childish by those that remained behind.”  
  
“So, that's four countries,” Garona said, imagining vast exoduses of humans, like when the Shadow Wolves had been banished, save for the fact that instead of green, they were pink and brown and black and yellow. “What of the others?”  
  
“Gilneas' ruling class were dour and noble. They were the first to put an emphasis on shipping and seafaring, so the issue of piracy came up quickly.” At her blank look, he clarified, “Piracy is like banditry over the water, in boats. Ships.”  
  
“Well, your water does seem safer here,” Garona murmured. “What happened with the water bandits?”  
  
“They rallied around a pirate-queen named Rhiannon Proudmoore and founded Kul Tiras on a cluster of islands, and they became rivals to Gilnean shipping. I don't know if I believe half of the stories about her, though, they sound like something from a copper dreadful.” Khadgar shrugged. “Lordaeron spread very, very far, scooping up land wherever they could, pushing the borders of the Arathi Highlands, Gilneas, Quel'thalas – the high home of the elves – and even Dalaran. Eventually, they were stopped by trade treaties, but they never actually gave back the land, so Dalaran is surrounded on all sides by Lordaeron, and the Arathi built a wall to keep Lordaeron out. I think the Menethils think it's funny.”  
  
“The Menethils?”  
  
“The ruling house of Lordaeron. They're dangerous on every front. While there haven't exactly been generals along the lines of King Arthanas for some time, they still field by far the largest knightly order.” Khadgar raised an eyebrow. “You'd do well not to challenge them. Even Dalaran respects their power.”  
  
Garona rolled her eyes. “We have enough trouble with Azerothian knights. You said there were two more.”  
  
“There are,” Khadgar said. “One of the places Lordaeron attempted to conquer were the Alterac Mountains. They're a range far north from here, cold and miserable from what I understand. One of my classmates was from there, he said it's the frozen pimple on the arse end of nowhere. The nobles that settled there rebelled and declared independence, which the crown at the time accepted.”  
  
“That seems weak of such a strong clan of conquerors,” Garona said doubtfully. “Particularly if they had such pride. No chieftain I'd know would balk from something worthless, just because it would offend them to lose.”  
  
“Queen Calilia wasn't a warrior, she was a diplomat and as ruthless as any mercenary with a sword. She let them keep it precisely because it was worth so little. She reaped great benefit from negotiating with them and lost nothing herself. As for Azeroth, undesirables from the other nations filtered down. Ship's captains who didn't like restrictions from either Kul Tiras or Gilneas travelled down the coast. Debauched nobles from Lordaeron, mercenaries left over from the great wars, sometimes even elves all travelled and settled in Stormwind, named for one of the expedition’s vessels.” Khadgar shrugged. “Mages too, those tired of living under the Six's strict rules. There are trolls in the green hills of Stranglethorn, and goblins in Booty Bay, but they could lay claim to it otherwise if they're willing to put forth the effort.”  
  
“So much land,” Garona murmured. “Why tell me all of this?”  
  
“What are you going to do about it?” Khadgar asked. “It's history. Besides, when you sort out your letters, that information is all here. There are books about the establishment of the various nations, as well as the history of the Quel'dorei and the--” Khadgar's eyes widened, looking at the decrepit book in his hands. “I can't believe it.”  
  
“What?” Garona said, setting the book she was holding down and marching over to him. “What is it?”  
  
“This is a history of the troll empires,” Khadgar murmured. “One of the things I'd been asked to find, but... it's so old. The copies have all been incomplete, or so our chief librarian would have us believe. This is incredible. He has a theory about the troll tribes.” Gently, very gently, he carried it over to a table. Garona quickly wiped the table down so he could put it and they huddled around it.  
  
“The writing seems faded,” Garona observed. “Can you read it?”  
  
“I can repair it,” Khadgar said. “Though there's only so much I can do, but I could transcribe it from the original.”  
  
“Can I help?” Garona asked curiously, and he blinked, looking at her. “What?”  
  
“Yes,” Khadgar said finally, and smiled at her. Garona smiled back tentatively. “You can help.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
The days passed quickly, as far as Garona was concerned. Once they'd finished cleaning that library, repairing the books they could and setting aside those they couldn't, Medivh set them to the task of transcribing the badly damaged books, copying what they could and helping them through what they couldn't understand. They talked endlessly of books, during their meals together, as they huddled around one of the tomes Garona was learning to read from, and she swore she heard Khadgar muttering to himself about them in his sleep, though he denied it.  
  
Garona sent no word back to Gul'dan as the days, then weeks, passed. Khadgar faithfully wrote to the Six every week. Garona read the letters, slipping them out of their envelopes and back in without difficulty. He never spoke of her, never mentioned another apprentice, but did speak of their projects to restore Medivh's vast collection of wisdom. Khadgar gave highlights of some of the tomes to Librarian Darothan, but sent him nothing. Garona read their letters in return, stealing them from Khadgar's room.  
  
 _They are hungry, these mages,_  Garona mused over her lunch.  _Feed their curiosity and they only wish to eat more._  
  
“The moment we stop learning is the moment we cease to live,” Medivh said, and she started. Khadgar slurped his soup, and held the book he was reading open with his spare hand, leaving none for the dribble of broth on his chin. “You are thinking deep thoughts, my student.”  
  
“What if you learn everything there is to learn?” Garona asked. “What if you run out of books to read?”  
  
“Ah,” Medivh said. “An excellent question, and it brings me to the next project I have for the pair of you.”  
  
Khadgar sputtered, hastily protected his book, then swallowed and wiped at his mouth with a napkin. Garona rolled her eyes. “We aren't done with the transcriptions yet.”  
  
“You aren't,” Medivh agreed. “But that doesn't mean I can't give you more work. Multitasking.”  
  
“So what are we to do now?” Garona demanded. When Medivh's gaze fell on her, she reflexively dropped her gaze and waited for a blow, but Medivh only smiled at her.  
  
“I have a riddle for you,” Medivh said. “A quandary. One I want you to work together to solve. The answer is somewhere here, in this tower.”  
  
“A research project!” Khadgar said, warming to the idea. “That's more like it. What do we need to research?”  
  
“What you research is up to you, so long as you can answer the question,” Medivh replied. Garona frowned.  
  
“You're leading us on,” Garona said. “Ask us the question and we'll find you an answer.”  
  
“Excellent,” Medivh said, and laced his fingers together as he leaned forward a little. “The question I ask you is this: how is a raven like a writing desk?”  
  
~ * ~  
  
It took them three weeks before they admitted defeat. At first, their lack of progress was blamed on the additional work they had to do, the transcriptions and the repairs. When they'd finished cleaning, and it was easier to search through the now clean tomes, ordered neatly on shelves, sitting at tables that gleamed with new polish, they had to admit they were finding nothing.  
  
Garona's ability to recognize strings of letters was proceeding apace. Khadgar did not begrudge her talent, and while she had quipped at first that Common was an easy language to learn, it wasn't that, or rather, it wasn't  _only_  that. It was that she was pushing herself to learn, to make herself stand equal to Khadgar. If he had to transcribe  _and_  do all the searching  _and_  teach her, he would be exhausted.  
  
Not that Khadgar wasn't tired already. She had learned to do with less sleep, less food, and less company. Khadgar, for all his magic, had not. Staying up until the early hours of the morning left him with shadows under his eyes and incoherent at breakfast. When he spent his days using magic, he seemed to always have something to eat or drink in his hands, food growing cold as he pored over another tome. He muttered to himself a great deal, and it was only after she had to get his attention by flicking the back of his ear that he even seemed to realize she was there.  
  
She simply hoped that this project was worth it.  
  
Khadgar had advised that since a writing desk was a common item – he'd even shown her one, and they'd repaired it, searching it for secrets that might contain their answer, to no avail – that she should look for books about ravens. She'd learned the different words – raven, crow, corvid, corvus – to look for and she began methodically. Finding little and nothing, she'd gone to Khadgar to make sure.  
  
“We arranged them by subject,” Khadgar had reminded her. “The books on astronomy aren't likely to have birds in them. Try the natural histories.”  
  
So she had, and so it had gone, for one week, then two, then three. They'd exhausted all of the libraries they had access to, and then had resorted to interviewing the servants, first Moroes and Cook, then the others, one by one. Attumen, the stablemaster, had even shown them a great tree where the local ravens convened, and they spent a day watching them, trying to find similarities, to no avail.  
  
On the morning of the end of the third week, when Khadgar, exhausted after yet another futile search, nearly fell face first into his porridge, Garona stood up, unable to take any more.  
  
“Guardian,” Garona began, and had to deliberately make noise so Medivh looked up from the letter he was reading. “We cannot find the answer.”  
  
“The answer?” Medivh asked. “To what?”  
  
“Why is a raven like a writing desk,” Khadgar muttered, propping his nodding head up against a stack of tomes. Garona winced at the angle of his neck. “Can't find it. Nothing there.”  
  
“It's true,” Garona said. “If it's in one of your books, it's not one of the ones we have access to.”  
  
“You believe that I have more libraries?” Medivh said, raising an eyebrow. “And why is that?”  
  
“Tower's warded up tighter than the Archmage's arse,” Khadgar muttered, and his eyes drooped closed. Medivh chuckled softly.  
  
“The books are all general knowledge, albeit rare general knowledge at times,” Garona said. “In fact, the rare, unusual books don't seem to follow a theme. It's more as though they were taken out and put back in the wrong places.”  
  
“Interesting,” Medivh said, bridging his fingers together and looking her over. “You're correct, of course. The knowledge I've collected would not fit into three small libraries. You will be allowed to see the large one in time, but your answer did not lie there.”  
  
“No matter where the answer lies, we can't find it,” Garona said, setting her chin stubbornly. “We have worked hard, very hard, to find this answer for you and do all of our other tasks, and we can't. Khadgar is exhausted.”  
  
At his name, the human jerked his head up, blinking sleepily.  
  
“So I see,” Medivh said. “Khadgar, you can go back to sleep when you've heard what I have to say.”  
  
“Mm, right.” Khadgar groped around for a pen, and Garona produced one under his nose. He blinked, as though confused, before taking it, opening up one of his notebooks, and dipping the pen in ink with only a few misses along the way.  
  
“I have the answer to your riddle, and the answer is 'they are not like one another'.”  
  
Garona stared at him wordlessly. Khadgar carefully wrote the answer down, then stared at it for a good long moment, disbelieving.  
  
“What?” Garona asked finally. “You said--”  
  
“I said there was an answer here, and there was,” Medivh replied. “That was it. In this particular case, I had a number of reasons to give you this riddle to solve. The first is to teach you that you can work very hard at something, you can half-kill yourself in doing so, and you can still fail.”  
  
“But--”  
  
“The world owes you nothing.” Garona blinked at his harshness, and relaxed as he smiled. “You are both incredibly accomplished. Khadgar is one of the youngest of his kind, and you, my dear, have suffered a great deal to excel as you have in your own field. Khadgar has stretched his limits. He has worked, he has researched, and he has taught. I'm proud of all of that.”  
  
Khadgar gave him a vague smile as he continued to write.  
  
“And myself?” Garona asked, and Medivh turned his smile to her.  
  
“You've been here for two months and you're reading at a level that many humans don't attain.” She stared at him. “Oh, literacy isn't forbidden to people, but many only know enough to puzzle out instructions or contracts. Few apply themselves to scholarly pursuits, and fewer still with such speed. I'm proud of you for what you've learned, and what you might yet learn.”  
  
“You're... proud of me?” Garona said, the words echoing in her ears. Medivh nodded slightly, and Khadgar nodded too, though he seemed to be falling asleep again.  
  
“Extremely proud,” Medivh said. “Having said all of that, being accomplished doesn't mean that you will always get what you want or need. Applying effort doesn't always net a positive result.” He frowned. “Some questions have no answers, or no answers that seem like answers.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Garona asked. “How is an answer not an answer?”  
  
“A riddle I will save for my next apprentice, I think,” Medivh said lightly. “The answer I gave you, did it seem like an answer?”  
  
“No,” Garona admitted. “It felt like a snipe hunt.”  
  
“It was an answer, though,” Medivh said. “Sometimes an answer is a negative. You were expecting an answer you could quantify, one that conveyed information, but 'they are not' is an answer too. If Gul'dan had asked you 'who among the Blackrock is plotting to kill him?', what kind of answer could you bring back?”  
  
“Well,” Garona said slowly, searching through her memories. “I could bring him back a name, or tell him I'd found no conspiracy.”  
  
“Exactly,” Medivh said. “Sometimes the answer is that there isn't one. At least, not a concrete answer. Perhaps someone is plotting against him, but you simply couldn't find them.”  
  
“If there was a conspiracy, I'd find it,” Garona snapped. “Or he'd make me regret it.”  
  
“Garona...” Khadgar said, and attempted to touch her, and Garona found his groping gestures at the air endearing. She moved into his range, and shifted his hand a little so he could touch her arm in comfort. His skin felt oddly hot against hers.  
  
“Are you sick?” Garona muttered, and Khadgar shrugged a little. “You're no help.”  
  
Medivh cleared his throat gently, and both apprentices looked to him. “You can regret not being able to find the answer you're looking for a great deal. At the level at which we function, not being able to find an answer can be devastating. That is why you will work hard in the future to find answers. Perhaps as hard as this, but you must be willing to accept that you will find answers you do not like. Answers you don't want to accept. Answers that may put the lives of many in danger.”  
  
“But then won't it be our fault if we fail?” Khadgar asked, rubbing at his eyes. “You said--”  
  
“The only sin is wilful ignorance,” Medivh said. “The only crime is concealing the truth from those who need to hear it. As mages, we must ask for the strength to change what we can, the wit to see what we cannot change, and the wisdom to know the difference.”  
  
“I think my mother has that saying on a tapestry somewhere,” Khadgar said with a yawn. “Was there more?”  
  
“Just a little more,” Medivh said. “Then you can sleep. The final lesson is that answers are not always as obvious as you might think. You did well with this, interviewing my servants, trying to move beyond books. The personal experiences of individuals are just as valuable as what is written down in a book. Remember those experiences. Sift through them and learn from them.”  
  
“We will,” Garona promised, and moved a little closer to Khadgar. “Up you go, sleepy.” She lifted his arm and ducked under it, and they both stood up. Khadgar made a little noise at the back of his throat, attempting to reach for his notebook and failing. “I'll put it in your room, idiot,” she said, but found that her voice lacked venom.  
  
“I see you've learned one more lesson,” Medivh said, and his smile took on a hint of sadness. Garona tilted her head, enquiring. “Mages work best with a partner. Tell Khadgar that when he wakes, we'll go to the real library.”  
  
Garona nodded a little, and helped Khadgar along. It seemed as though he could barely stand, and she feared briefly she would need to carry him pig-a-back. He managed to keep walking, though, and Garona dumped him slightly unceremoniously into bed, quickly gathering up the books he'd left there, marking each place and then stacking them on one of his shelves. They had not remained empty for long. Then, businesslike, she tugged his slippers off and tucked them under the bed, then his robes.  
  
 _He's so skinny,_  Garona thought, looking over his pale pink chest and arms. The robe was draped over a chair, out of the way, and Garona manoeuvred him under the blankets.  _He's been working more than he's been eating. I'll have to watch him._  She put a hand on his forehead, finding him a little warm.  _Is he sick? I can't tell. I'll wait until he sleeps to find out._  
  
Garona tucked Khadgar in, and hesitated for a moment. She moved to the chair and dropped into it, grabbing one of the nearby books. Unlike many of the others, this one he'd brought with him, and it was smaller, more comfortable to hold in her hands, the binding thinner, a picture of two humans holding each other pressed into the cover instead of simply words engraved into thick leather. There was no marker in this one, and the pages themselves were well-thumbed and worn.  
  
 _I wonder what this is?_  she mused, and opened it gingerly, to the first full page.  _If Khadgar is reading it, it's sure to be educational._


	9. Chapter 9

Garona awoke abruptly to a sound like fingers brushing against her window. It had been weeks since the riddle. Khadgar had recovered from his illness by simply sleeping and eating properly, and once he had, Medivh had unlocked the next floor of his tower.  
  
If Khadgar and Garona had been overwhelmed – and somewhat dismayed – by the state of the first three libraries they'd encountered, it was nothing to this one. It was an entire grand chamber of books, sitting on shelves or stacked on the floor. It wasn't particularly dusty, not here, but there was a sense of disorganization. They had been given no instructions to clean these books or repair them. The shelves seemed sturdy enough to hold their great loads, but it was as though someone had come through to use the library and no one bothered to put anything back.  
  
By silent, mutual agreement, Khadgar and Garona had begun to clean the new library, sorting things out and marking the shelves. As Garona's ability to read and write improved, she began to understand why Khadgar was constantly excited by the library.  
  
“I have copies of every book in Dalaran,” Medivh had told her during their lessons. “Though Dalaran has 'restricted' and 'forbidden' sections, whereas I...” He shrugged. “If you can find it, you can read it.”  
  
“Are you not afraid of what we might do with it?” Garona asked of him. “You've been hiding them away.”  
  
“No more than I hide anything else,” Medivh had replied ruefully. “You're both adults, you can make decisions about what you do with the knowledge you have on your own, by your own judgement. Also, everything in that forbidden section isn't nearly as bad as what's not in Dalaran's libraries at all.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Garona asked, curious. Medivh chuckled.  
  
“There's always a danger of students breaking into the forbidden sections of the library... they welcome it. It shows a certain amount of initiative. Many of the things in the forbidden section are beyond the abilities of mere mage apprentices and they're all magically tracked,” Medivh explained. “If there's something that's truly, genuinely dangerous, it isn't kept in Dalaran at all, or if it is, it's only there briefly for study. The dangerous books and artifacts are kept off-site.”  
  
“Do you know where?” Garona pressed, and Medivh raised an eyebrow.  
  
“Thinking of stealing one, are you?” As Garona stuttered her denial, he continued. “The storage centre is in Quel'thalas, beneath the home of its curator, an archivist by the name of Farathir Spellchaser. He and his wife maintain a set of truly impressive wards, protecting relics taken from rogue mages and demonic cults.”  
  
“The elves know of demons?” Garona asked, and glanced over her shoulder. Khadgar was absorbed utterly in his book, and she dismissed him. When her gaze turned back to Medivh, she realized he had looked over at Khadgar as well.  
  
“The elves, the humans, any archmage of note has had an encounter with the infernalists, as we call them, though warlock does have a nice ring to it,” Medivh replied. “Azeroth caught the attention of the demons long, long ago, and they...”  
  
“They..?” Garona prompted, watching his expression closely. There was sadness to it, resignation, but it cleared as he smiled.  
  
“Once a world has attracted the attention of the demons, it does not shake it until that world is a husk, claimed for the Burning Legion.”  
  
“What is this Legion?” Garona asked, even as the words sent a shiver through her spine.  _And the orcs have the demons' attention._  
  
“It is a vast, infinite army of demons and their recruited mortal slaves,” Medivh said. “Led by great demonic sorcerers, who may also be warlocks now that I think of it, and led by the great demon-Titan, Sargeras. They want nothing less than to dominate the whole of the known universe, one burning world at a time.”  
  
Garona shuddered. “Why have they not come to Draenor? The demons know we are there.”  
  
“What makes you think they haven't?” Medivh asked, and as she shook off sleep, she still could not remember her answer.  
  
Garona let the memories go, and concentrated on what was going on outside her window. She slipped from under the covers and padded across the floor, finding it cool but not as cold as Khadgar claimed sometimes. Outside, something was striking against the glass panes. At first, Garona thought them to be feathers, but they were too tiny, and too irregularly shaped. As she watched, some of the feathery white motes stuck against the glass and melted, while others landed on the sill to cover it with a thin film of soft, colourless cotton.  
  
 _What... what is this?_  Garona wondered, and realized that the knowledge was at her fingertips. She glanced around, looking for a long set of shadows. Khadgar never asked what she was learning from Medivh, and she didn't ask what he was learning from the Guardian either, though they conferred regularly about their shared lessons, of which there were many. This was because she would never be an archmage, and Khadgar would never be what she was. Shadowwalker.  
  
She took a step into the shadows and disappeared into darkness.  
  
She could hear wind howling around her, grasping and tugging at at her sleeping clothes. It was cold here, but she pushed past it.  _You must protect your core, your soul self,_  Garona reminded herself, recalling Medivh's words.  _Your father's magic and your mother's gift mix as one within you. You are part of each of them, but you can only be yourself._  
  
 _I am only myself,_  Garona thought, and began to walk. It was not a long journey from her room to Khadgar's, one she could easily make by walking normally, but Medivh had urged her to practice whenever she could.  _You will not always have time to shadow walk when you are awake and well rested. Sometimes you will wake suddenly and urgently need to move. Sometimes you will be so exhausted you don't want to stand. Sometimes, you may even be hurt. Practice when you can._  
  
She concentrated on Khadgar's room, a place she knew well outside of the shadows: she knew where he kept his piles of clothes, the stacks of books, and the way he drew the shades tightly to block out the sun that rose on his side of the tower. This created many shadows, more than large enough for her to step through.  
  
The realm of shadow whispered to her, but she ignored the voices, indistinct as they were, and landed on the other side. She tugged the curtains open a little, confirming that this side of the tower too was being struck by the strange, soft substance. She pulled the curtains the rest of the way open, and the light fell on Khadgar's face.  
  
“Mmargh,” her fellow apprentice protested, and attempted to turn his face away from the inexorable light. Garona approached him, casting a shadow over him before taking him by the arm and shaking him roughly.  
  
“Get up, lazy,” Garona said. “I have a question for you.”  
  
“It's half past the wrong time of day to be awake,” Khadgar mumbled, though he lacked the coherency to speak the whole of the sentence. Garona, however, was good at translating his tired ramblings.  
  
“It's well past dawn,” Garona said. “It moves later and later anyway.”  
  
“That's planetary movement for you,” Khadgar yawned, pressing his hand to his mouth. “How did you..?”  
  
“Not important,” Garona said. “Tell me what's going on outside.”  
  
“Daybreak,” Khadgar replied. “Accursed daybreak. Go away.” He turned his back to her, and moved one of his pillows on top of his face to block out the light.  
  
“For some reason, I trusted an idiot with an idiot beard to help me,” Garona grumbled, and plucked the pillow from his hands. He made a sad noise in protest. “Come to the window and look.”  
  
“It's growing in just fine,” Khadgar grumbled. “Alright, alright. Turn away, or something.”  
  
“Why?” Garona asked. “It's not as if I haven't seen you wandering around in bed clothes before.”  
  
“I'm not wearing anything,” Khadgar said, a flush creeping along his neck suddenly. “I wasn't expecting an early morning visitor.”  
  
Garona resisted the urge to sniff him curiously.  _Does he think I don't know what people do in bed alone?_  “Very well, but no going back to sleep.”  
  
Khadgar grunted in reply, and Garona went to the window, looking out. There was more white outside now, blowing about noisily. She could hear the wind howling even with the walls and glass to protect them, and she watched the whorls of colourlessness eagerly.  
  
“That's snow,” Khadgar said after a few moments, joining her at the window. “We're well into Winter, it's not surprising. You didn't notice, how it was getting dark sooner, and getting colder?”  
  
“I get up at the same time whether or not there's light,” Garona pointed out. “Unlike some people. I also don't feel the cold much.”  
  
“Explains some things,” Khadgar muttered, and winced as she punched his shoulder. “Is there no snow on Draenor?”  
  
“There might be in the distant clans' lands, the ones that never go to Oshu'gun because it's too far,” Garona replied. “I’ve never been anywhere where there was snow before. What is it made of?”  
  
“Frozen rain,” Khadgar said, stealing a glance at her as she pressed her face to the glass to watch the white fragments flutter down. “If you go up high enough, where the clouds are, it's quite cold. The rain falls down and is frozen. Depending on how cold it is, it changes the snowflakes. Some are small, and like little balls, others are those big flakes you see, wet and they melt easily. Other weather conditions and combinations of wind and temperature create sleet or hail or freezing rain. A lot of snow is called a blizzard, a very little is called a flurry. Sometimes it lasts for hours and hours, other times only for a short time. This is our first snowfall here.”  
  
“And it doesn't... hurt?” Garona asked softly. “The rain doesn't hurt here, but does this snow?”  
  
“Not exactly, no,” Khadgar said. “It doesn't burn like your rains, but it can sting your skin if it's not protected, and the cold nips at you. If we bundle up, we should be able to go outside.”  
  
“Can we? Go outside, I mean,” Garona asked, and looked over at him. His eyes widened suddenly, and he swallowed hard. “What?”  
  
“Nothing,” Khadgar said hastily. “Absolutely nothing. Are you sure you want to go out before breakfast?”  
  
“We'll be sent to work after breakfast,” Garona pointed out. “This may be our only free time before the snow stops. I want to see it and feel it. Don't you?”  
  
“Well...” Khadgar began, and swallowed again. “Certainly. Let's see what the servants can give us. I didn't bring anything much to go outside in, and I know you won't have anything proper to wear.”  
  
Garona nodded and pushed away from the window, considering her own clothing. “I'll go dress. What should I pick?”  
  
“Clothes,” Khadgar uttered, and she scowled at him. “Something that you think will keep you warm, and covers your arms and legs.”  
  
“That would be all of the clothing I own,” Garona replied with a snort. “I'll see you downstairs.”  
  
“Downstairs,” Khadgar repeated faintly, and she headed towards the doorway. Only at the last moment did she notice that his neck was flushed again.  
  
 _I wonder what's got him all worked up?_  Garona thought, opening the door and striding down the hall, the fabric of her light underthings flowing as she walked. She could feel the first hints of cold creeping along the bare length of her legs, thighs, and arms.  _He can be so odd at times._  
  
~ * ~  
  
“I can't remember the first time I saw snow,” Thrall commented quietly. “Though I must have been quite young. It would pile up in Durnholde's courtyard, knee-high to most of the soldiers and servants, and they'd have to dig out paths from building to building, like tunnels. Sometimes they'd go right over my head.”  
  
“There was never that much, only a hand's span before it would blow away or melt. Most of Azeroth never had snow at all, it was too warm. The swamp never got it at all, and with the expanding corruption, it only ever grew warmer,” Garona replied. “Still, it was new to me, and fascinating. The Old Man allowed us to spend the day outside, exploring and playing in the snow. Khadgar caught me unawares with a snowball and I shoved snow into his robes until he begged for mercy.”  
  
Thrall chuckled. “I wasn't permitted to play with anyone other than Tari as a child, but we built snowmen and made snow dresses when the snow wasn't quite so deep. I tried to make a little snow cabin against the wall of the house but it wouldn't stay up.” He sighed wistfully, then glanced over at Garona. “You called Medivh the 'Old Man'.”  
  
“It was our nickname for him,” Garona replied. “Once we were more comfortable with him. He... seemed so much older than we were. Wiser, sadder. At the time, I thought it was the fact that he was living a double life, but I didn't quite understand, not then. Khadgar...”  
  
“He cared for you,” Thrall murmured, and Garona gave him a sharp look. “The way you describe it, even if you didn't realize it then, he was looking at you with interest.”  
  
“May you always be this perceptive in matters of the heart,” Garona grumbled. “May I continue?”  
  
“Of course,” Thrall said, smiling.  _As if I have that to worry about._  
  
~ * ~  
  
“I don't see what we're going to find to give the Guardian of Tirisfal at a local shop,” Khadgar complained, leaning against the low wall. The shop's proprietor, a squat man with thinning grey hair, glared at him. Khadgar held up his hands briefly before crossing them over his chest. “No offense meant, of course.”  
  
“It's not as if we can travel to Stormwind and go shopping,” Garona pointed out, moving from one shelf to the other. She was wearing a long, covering coat, though it wasn't as thick as Khadgar's. She still didn't feel the cold as keenly, but it was uncomfortable to be wet when the snow, half rain, started up again. “We're just going to have to accept that and work with what we have.”  
  
“Beggin' both your pardons, but Old Man of the Tower has never complained about my wares,” grumbled the man. “You just have to look for the right things.”  
  
“Your pardon, Master Senturus,” Khadgar said, and rolled his eyes slightly as the man bustled out from behind the counter. “Do you have any suggestions?”  
  
“We have a fine selection of books,” Master Senturus said in reply. “Or-- Duncan!” From around the side came a young boy, perhaps only eleven or twelve, carrying a crate. The boy's face was a younger, longer version of his father's, his hair thicker and darker, and he had a youthful gleam in his eyes.  
  
“Yes, Da?” Duncan called back. He went up on his toes to heft the crate onto the counter and pulled aside the hay that was packed around the cloth-wrapped contents. “Ah, custom.”  
  
“They're lookin' for a gift for the Old Man,” Master Senturus said. “Tell them what we've got.”  
  
“Uh. Books?” Duncan suggested, frowning thoughtfully, picking hay out of his grey tunic, and brushing it from his brown trousers. “He likes books.”  
  
“There are more books in Karazhan than there are fish in the sea,” Khadgar muttered. “I would know, I've dusted them all.”  
  
Duncan squinted at him. “Bit surly for a maid, ain'tcha?”  
  
“Khadgar,” Garona said warningly as he unfolded himself from the wall. “We're concerned that because Medivh has so many books that we won't find him anything new or unique to put in his collection.”  
  
“If he's that picky, he should just write the books himself,” Duncan sniffed. “Some people hardly get more than one or two.”  
  
“Some people are--” Khadgar began, but Garona held up a hand, eyes wide. “What? What is it?”  
  
“Do you have empty books?” Garona asked, her gaze focused on the boy. Duncan squirmed. “Something big and thick, for writing down recipes, perhaps?”  
  
“Uh, yeah, we have a few books for herbals. I'll be back,” Duncan replied, scooting off to retrieve an appropriate volume. Garona grinned broadly, and Khadgar gave her an appreciative look.  
  
“You can never have too many notebooks,” Khadgar recited. “We always learned that in Dalaran. Smart, very smart.”  
  
“Thank you,” Garona replied, smiling at him. “Once we pay for this, we just need to do our other Winterveil shopping.”  
  
“Right,” Khadgar agreed. “We should split up for that, I think.”  
  
Garona raised an eyebrow. “Do you think we're going to keep things a surprise?”  
  
“Well, I'd like to,” Khadgar replied, spreading his hands. “We just have to agree to it. We won't spy on each other.”  
  
“Hmph,” Garona said, but nodded. “I'll abide by the ground rules.” Master Senturus muttered under his breath about a pair of bloody great fools, and they both ignored him. Moments later, Duncan returned, hauling a book as thick as a fist, its cover ornate and bound in red-brown leather.  
  
“Does that book have a buckle on it?” Khadgar murmured, looking it over. “That seems ridiculous.”  
  
“Why?” Duncan asked, curious. “Don't wizards need to keep their books safe and locked up?”  
  
“If a mage wants to secure their knowledge, they'd use a spell to seal the book,” Khadgar replied. “Or they'd scramble the letters so only they could read it. You use belts for trousers and robes, not books.”  
  
“Huh,” Duncan said, and scratched his head. “I guess I'll never understand wizards.”  
  
“Don't worry, most people don't,” Garona said, and produced a handful of coins. Khadgar muttered about 'show offs' and matched her coin for coin. Then it was a matter of Master Senturus counting out the money given to make sure it was enough.  
  
“Wrap it for you?” Duncan asked, his eyes lighting on the coins. “Only a little more.”  
  
“We'll manage for now,” Garona said, and tucked the book into her satchel. “Happy Winterveil.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
It was snowing again on Winterveil, and Garona could hear the snow falling. She spent the first few moments of the morning listening to the soft, gentle flakes landing. The previous weeks had been warm, then cold, then warm again, and she and Khadgar had bet coin on whether or not there would be white for the holiday. It would seem she had won, but that felt less important than the day.  
  
Orcs did not often exchange gifts, and the ones they did give were laden with meaning. When she had listened in on conversations between women in the clans, they spoke of weaving blankets in clan colours for young children, or for their beds that they shared with their mates. Fathers and mothers spoke of giving their growing children their first weapons, made with their own hands. There were courting gifts, wrapped bundles of food passed between siblings, hand-me-down clothes.  
  
Garona understood that humans would do these things sometimes, but they also had many specific occasions for gift-giving. Birth days were celebrated each year with desserts and candles and gifts. Whole days were reserved for giving gifts between lovers, others between family and friends. Sometimes, the days themselves were sacrificed to celebrate the turning of the seasons or the welcoming of ships back into harbour.  
  
 _Humans have so many holidays,_  Garona thought as she watched the snowflakes.  _Orcs only truly have one, the gathering at Oshu'gun. Less to celebrate, perhaps, or maybe they just only consider learning how many have survived another journey around the sun to be an important thing to celebrate._  
  
Garona sighed, and pushed herself up out of bed, throwing on a robe, trying not to let the thoughts darken her mood. Last night, after Medivh had retired for the evening, she and Khadgar had placed their gifts beneath the small tree that had been given to them by the servants. A much larger tree could be found in the grand ballroom, and Garona had admired its lavish decorations. Their tree was plain, though they'd folded some paper into flowers and birds to place between the branches, not even attempting to copy the great tree’s grandeur.  
  
 _I hope Medivh will like it,_  Garona thought as she shuffled down the hall. There was no true sitting room, only a library with the tables tucked aside and some chairs brought in, but it suited them. They'd converged in a library, after all. It only seemed right and fair that they celebrated in one.  
  
Garona opened the door and tugged it open, caught by a sudden yawn, so her eyes were closed when she stepped in and the door clicked shut behind her. When she opened them again, she gasped in amazement at the sight.  
  
Instead of their meagre attempts at decorating, the tree was gilded with long, trailing bits of silver that Garona vaguely recalled were referred to as tinsel. A set of red, green, and gold spheres hung at odd intervals around it, and a red velvet piece of cloth was tucked around the tree, though hardly visible behind the boxes of gifts. There were a pile of matching cushions on the floor, and the one great chair was draped with gold garlands.  
  
 _Is this... am I dreaming?_  Garona wondered, approaching slowly, testing each new thing with her finger, poking and prodding to test softness and reality. This was how Khadgar found her.  
  
“Great Adaraxiel's Ghost,” Khadgar exclaimed between yawns. “Did you do this?”  
  
“No, I found things this way,” Garona said, turning to face him. “You can see this too? I'm not dreaming?” She reached to clutch at his wrist.  
  
“No, I see it,” Khadgar agreed. “I didn't think the servants were allowed up here, how did--”  
  
“It would seem that Father Winterveil has answered the wishes of children to have a very festive time,” Medivh said lightly. “Please, sit down. I believe we have presents to open.”  
  
“Only idiots believe in Father Winterveil past childhood,” Khadgar complained, even as he sat on one of the cushions. Garona shoved him lightly and sat next to him, legs crossed as she looked at the pile eagerly.  
  
“Are you calling me an idiot?” Medivh asked lightly, raising an eyebrow. “What's to say I haven't visited his workshop in Northrend and asked for his help?”  
  
“Every rule of common sense and also good taste,” Khadgar replied, meeting his gaze, and Garona shoved him again. “Hey!”  
  
“It doesn't matter why, only that it happened,” Garona said. “And we have gifts to open.”  
  
“Some mage apprentice you are,” Khadgar grumbled, and so they began.  
  
Most of the gifts were in boxes, or wrapped in brightly coloured paper. Garona received the most, or so it felt like as she revealed new tunics and trousers, fresh underthings and warm socks, a pair of gloves of soft leather lined with wool and a quilted coat to keep her warm. All were in the human style, in hues of dark green and brown and black, and none bore clan markings. Garona held each to her chest, embracing them tightly.  
  
Khadgar's gifts were different since he needed fewer new clothes; instead he received a wealth of books, rare volumes that he had admired from Medivh's collection, boxes of supplies for more complicated spellcasting, special tools, his own telescope, much smaller than the one in Karazhan's observatory but in just as fine a quality.  
  
Both of them were given food, baked goods in the shape of balls and trees and snowmen, iced in white, green, and red, and jars of hard candy, sealed with a festive piece of cloth and a bit of ribbon. Each received one small box of chocolates filled with caramel and fruit jam.  
  
Then it was time for the gifts Khadgar and Garona had bought. After some debate the day before, they agreed to present Medivh with his tome together, placing it into his lap. He looked pleased, though unsurprised, and Garona thought, ruefully, that it wasn't a surprise that he had been the one to surprise them and not the other way around.  
  
Khadgar's gift from Garona was a knife, the edge long and slender, meant for arcane work rather than fighting or stabbing, the metal blueish silver. Garona had worked on it in secret, going out to the village to work at the forges. The hilt was wrapped with tooled leather and the pommel marked with the arcane eye of Dalaran, since Khadgar had no clan and no family arms. His expression had been worth the effort and the secrecy, lighting up like a candle on Winterveil morning.  
  
“This is yours,” Khadgar said, pushing a box at her, and she gave him a curious look. She untied the ribbon holding it closed and lifted the lid. She made a soft noise at the sight. Resting on a handkerchief that had been carefully folded up to give the box padding was a silver necklace, the pendant a flat, silver disk. She picked it up, running the flat of her thumb over the surface, and then turned it over.  
  
 _Garona's,  
from Khadgar_  
  
“There wasn't room for much more,” Khadgar said quietly. “Do you like it?”  
  
“Yes,” Garona replied softly. “Help me put it on?”  
  
Khadgar nodded, and she lifted her hair, pushing it to the side so he could clasp it around her neck. Realistically, she shouldn't be wearing anything that would catch light if she wanted to keep to the darkness. If she wore it, she would have to hide it, keep it secret. She looked down at the disk again.  
  
 _Maybe... I don't need to,_  she thought, though the idea was futile.  _Maybe I can live outside the shadows._  The feeling of fingers brushing her neck startled her out of her thoughts, and she glanced at Khadgar, who was retreating back to his own cushion.  
  
“Happy Winterveil, children,” Medivh said, and they smiled back at him, for once not protesting that they were adults.  
  
“Happy Winterveil, Old Man,” they chorused. Medivh produced a book, though it was a thin one, and handed it to Garona. Immediately, Garona took it and opened it.  
  
“You may begin at the first page,” he said, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Garona eyed him, but began to read.  
  
“A long, long time ago, when all the continents were one, and the mists of dawn had not yet been burned away by the rising of the sun, there lived the first races: trolls and tauren, dwarves and giants, and some even claim the dragons. They worshipped the gods of earth and sky, of sea and fire, of the sun and the moons above and the burning hells below.  
  
“The great goddess of the earth, known as the Mother for her ability to grant comfort to all of her children, watched endlessly over the world, though she was not tireless, for she did tire. When her great eyes, one gold and one silver, closed, the sea would try to claim the earth, the fires would burst up from below and rage over all, and the air would grow thick and heavy, choking her children and so she would force her eyes open again so that beneath her stern gaze, all would behave as it should.  
  
“One day, she grew so tired that she feared she might fall asleep forever. Her children were fraught with despair, fearing for all that they might lose. The trolls, the Amani and the Drakkari, the Zandalari and the Hakkari and the mysterious Kaldari all began to chant, urging her to wakefulness. They engaged in revelry until they themselves fell asleep, and they woke later to do the same thing again until the very spirits of the dead joined in. This did not make the Mother wakeful. Instead, she longed to lay asleep as they did.  
  
“The tauren wept for the Mother, for they believed that they loved her best. They shed tears, weeping and wailing as they banged on their great drums, calling out all that would be lost if she failed to stay awake. They mourned until they were exhausted, falling asleep even as they stood, wavering like reeds in the wind, and they woke to weep once more until the very darkness beneath the world crept up and touched them with anger instead of sorrow, to change the sound of their wailing. This did not make the Mother wakeful. Instead, she longed to hold them in her arms and comfort them.  
  
“The giants howled their anger, punching and kicking at the ground, creating mountains and crevasses, canyons and mesas. They threatened her, demanding that she keep awake, lest they come and chew off her fingers and toes, puncture her eyes and snarl up her hair. They raged out of fear, and were fearful because they were angry and they could not stop themselves, could not find a greater reason for the Mother not to forsake them. This did not make the Mother wakeful, and instead she lectured them sternly and reminded them that anger caused more problems than it solved.  
  
“Finally, the dwarves, her truest children, stirred in the earth and came to her, their hands outstretched with kindness and generosity. They brought her baubles of gold and branches of green. They lit candles of white with red flames, their procession consisting of every dwarf that could walk. She was astounded to see them, but they did not weep or beg or rage. Instead, they carried between them the greatest, whitest cloak she'd ever seen, of the softest, most plush velvet and wool they could find.  
  
“What is this?” she asked, touching it. Even running her fingers along the length made her tired.  
  
“It is your blanket,” the dwarves said. “So that you can sleep in comfort.”  
  
“But I must not sleep,” the Mother said, tears in her eyes. “You will all suffer. My children will beg and weep and rage, and my brothers and sisters will ruin and destroy without my eyes upon them.”  
  
“It is not your sleep that causes the suffering but the fact that they must be watched,” the dwarves replied. “So we have an idea. Dancing and singing will not keep us safe if it is not their purpose to protect. Tears will not keep us safe if they are not wept while working hard. Rage will not protect us if it is shouted at the air. Only innovation will protect us. Only invention and intelligence.”  
  
“All true, all true,” the Mother said. “Please, what is your idea?”  
  
“Create a guardian against your brothers and sisters,” the dwarves replied. “One who will protect this world while you cover yourself in white and sleep. Because that guardian will not be you, they will need to work much harder in a shorter time, so they will need to rest more, but even one fourth of a year will be better than none.”  
  
“Yes, yes,” the Mother said. “I have an idea. He will be the Father of my children, my husband and partner as I don this veil of winter. He will sleep when I wake, and no harm will come to any of my children. What should he look like, my husband? Should he be a giant, strong and bold, or a tauren, sad and solemn, or a troll, gay and cheerful at all times?”  
  
“He should be as you want him to be, to show that you have made the best choice that you could,” replied the dwarves, as humbly as they could.  
  
“Then he shall be a dwarf, because you are the wisest of all my children,” the Mother said, and blessed each of them.  
  
“From the earth, the Mother created the Father of Winter, vigilant of the Veil, and he was a dwarf, though large and stout and with a fine beard. His eyes burned like coals, twinkling as he watched over children and sibling alike, and his skin was nut-brown and wrinkled as he smiled or frowned or shouted. He smoothed the Mother's veil, and the soft velvet blew up and around, spreading far and wide. Twice a year the Father and Mother would join hands, as one would sleep and the other would wake.  
  
“The End.”  
  
“What did you think?” Medivh asked as Garona slowly closed the book, holding it in her hands and staring at the cover. Khadgar snorted softly, and Medivh glanced over at him sharply.  
  
“It reminds me of the ancestral tales from Oshu'gun,” Garona said, running the tips of her fingers along the pressed-in title. “Where the world is shaped by elements and the ancestors. The different people represent different elements, or in the case of this story, different emotions. This is a story written by dwarves?”  
  
“It is,” Medivh said. “There are different versions based on who is doing the telling, and the elves have a completely different story, celebrating the fact that Quel'thalas is eternally bound in a cycle of spring and summer.”  
  
“People never tell stories where others are the key to solving a problem,” Khadgar said, unable to contain it any longer. “So of course the dwarves were wise and the giants and trolls were foolish, and these 'tauren'. As if crying ever helped with anything.”  
  
“You don't believe in Father Winterveil?” Medivh asked, tone arch. Khadgar scowled at him.  
  
“There is no proof that seasons have to do with anything but the rotation of the planet and its orbit around the sun,” Khadgar replied. “Just as the tides are affected by the moons above. We have evidence of the elemental planes and the effects of their denizens on the world as an anomaly, not as a starting point. The notion of a Titan-based creation myth is an dwarven interpretation of the writings they found within Khaz Modan.”  
  
“You must be a delight at clan gatherings,” Garona muttered, before recalling that humans didn't have clans. Khadgar ignored her anyway.  
  
“You're discounting archeological evidence?”  
  
“I'm discounting superstitious  _nonsense_ ,” Khadgar huffed. “There are no greater powers at work. The hierarchy of beings has already been catalogued and measured. Anything that seems unexplained can be tied directly to something else that has been. That's the end of it.”  
  
“I see,” Medivh said, and something flickered over his face. Garona thought briefly it was disappointment, but he also seemed slightly pleased. All at once, the room seemed cold. “Why don't you make a study of that superstitious nonsense?”  
  
“What, now?” Khadgar asked, confused. “But it's--”  
  
“Just like any other day of the year, isn't it?” Medivh asked quietly. “You can't have it both ways, I fear. You can honour the traditions and rest on a holy day, or you can treat it like any other day, which means returning to your studies.”  
  
Khadgar stared at him a moment longer, his expression mulish. Medivh met his gaze easily, and finally, the younger mage stood, straightened his robe, and strode out, leaving his gifts where they lay. Garona watched him stalk out, and then rose a moment later.  
  
“I'll retrieve my gifts later, I--”  
  
“You won't be joining him,” Medivh said, stopping her cold. “You'll be coming with me.”  
  
 _Here it comes,_  Garona thought, and fear flooded into her. “What will we be doing?”  
  
“Not here,” he said, shaking his head slightly, and rose from his chair. He indicated for her to follow as he strode out of the room, listening for Khadgar before continuing to walk down the hall. Garona kept pace easily, and they stopped at the end of the hallway. She looked at the painting on the wall. She had seen it a number of times, and had admired the abstract, swirling green colours, the spheres half-hidden in shadows and the speckles of light in the darkness. She looked at it again now, and in doing so, missed Medivh's sharp gesture, but could not miss how the wall shifted and parted.  
  
“How... I checked,” Garona said softly. “The wall isn't hollow.”  
  
“More often than not, you can't trust what your senses tell you unquestioningly,” Medivh said, prying the door open, and gesturing for her to follow. “Especially not in a world of magic and illusion.”  
  
“Where not everything is categorized and notated?” Garona guessed and he nodded slightly. Behind the wall was a passageway, grimy though lifeless. Medivh snapped his fingers, and as they walked, the torches set into sconces on the wall flickered to life and then back to darkness. Behind her, the wall slid closed.  
  
It was cold within the passageway, the torches providing only light and no warmth. Garona looked around, probing at the shadows and sensing for anything unusual. When nothing returned, she made a soft noise of frustration.  
  
“The enchantments are stronger than your gifts,” Medivh told her. “Stronger than Khadgar's magic. Only a Guardian can push past these wards.”  
  
“And you're the only Guardian,” Garona noted, and he shook his head slightly, but said nothing more. “What are we doing here?”  
  
“Fulfilling a bargain,” Medivh said, and Garona's eyes widened in sudden realization. Medivh caught her sleeve and tugged her after him.  
  
 _Is there anywhere for me to run?_  Garona wondered as she followed him.  _If the wards are that strong, am I trapped here forever? A ghost, to wander. Khadgar will never know, he'll think I've abandoned him._  Distress gnawed in her stomach, feeding on the candy she'd eaten while opening presents.  _I don't want him to think that of me._  
  
Medivh reached another door, this one entirely mundane, and opened it. Here, there were no torches, but instead glowing red runes on the walls, filling the corridor with an almost infernal light. Behind the walls, cages were set, holding... things. Creatures, even, darkness and fire blended together into a whole that made Garona's eyes hurt to look at them. Here and there, Garona spotted books, thick tomes, untitled and sealed with magic, locks, and even a buckle, which reminded her of Khadgar's assertion that mages didn't need to use  _physical_  locks. She shuddered and hurried along.  
  
Finally, here were Medivh's personal chambers. They held a huge bed, draped with a thick canopy, a small sitting room, not unlike the library they had met in, and a work chamber. The work chamber was dark, and Medivh lit a candle by hand, light flickering in a well of deep red wax, casting the whole place in a sinister light. Garona could see the vague, shadowed shapes of bookshelves and countertops, and in the centre of the room, next to a large, padded chair, was a curved shape, draped in cloth. Medivh put a hand on her shoulder.  
  
“Come with me,” Medivh said, and his voice filled the quiet room. They moved forward together, Medivh taking the chair and Garona kneeling down. Medivh drew back the covering, revealing a crystal that seemed to fill her gaze, ensnaring her until Medivh cleared his throat. He waved a hand, and the orb began to glow. “As requested, I have brought her.” He nodded to Garona. “Put your hand on it, child, like mine.”  
  
Fingers trembling, Garona put her hand on the orb. Immediately, an image filled her mind, and it seemed as large as it had when she was a child, when she had made that first mistake. In the dim light, Garona thought she caught Medivh giving her a sympathetic look, but it was nothing to the sound of the speaker's voice.  _His_ voice.  
  
“Garona?” Gul'dan demanded. “Where have you been? Report to me, tell me what you have learned.”  
  
Mouth dry, Garona nodded, more to herself than anyone else, and began to speak.


	10. Chapter 10

“I'm sorry,” Thrall said, feeling no more adequate in his regret than he had before. “I don't know what to say.”  
  
“Speaking to Gul’dan again was a reminder that no matter how happy I was and how much I wanted to forget, I was not home, I was not safe,” Garona replied. “It was a reminder that Medivh was still a traitor to his people, still working with demons. I never made the connection though, not then, and not until it was too late.”  
  
“Yes, about Sargeras,” Thrall said. “Jaina told me the whole story, of how his mother defeated the Avatar of Sargeras, but the demon merely waited for a vulnerable moment to make his move.”  
  
“Yes,” Garona said, her voice sad. “Medivh rarely, if ever, spoke of her. He... resented her, or so I believed, because she left him with his father and never warned him or told him what he would become. That was true, but it wasn't the only reason. Sargeras hated her and feared her. She could have caused everything to fall apart, and she did.”  
  
“What happened?” Thrall urged. “Tell me.”  
  
“I had been living in Karazhan for two and a half years,” Garona began. “I spoke to Gul'dan infrequently, and I knew that the war was reaching a standstill. The Horde could take and hold territory so long as it wasn't actually a military asset. They were too used to being able to bowl over a target, and that no one would go back around them to take it back, or reinforce the fortress so well that they were throwing themselves on the walls to die. The human villages will remember the time well, I believe some still bear the scars, while others were never rebuilt. None of that mattered to Gul'dan. He had one goal, one intention.”  
  
“Stormwind,” Thrall growled. “He needed it to fall, and sooner rather than later.”  
  
“Yes,” Garona agreed. “It put a strain on Medivh. He was... more distant, distracted. Khadgar didn't really notice, he was distracted too. I remember the tower feeling very lonely. It was Spring when it happened.”  
  
“When what happened?” Thrall asked, looking her over. Garona looked up, meeting his gaze.  
  
“Everything fell to pieces.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
Garona appreciated all of Azeroth's seasons. She had come to like cold winters and hot summers, cool autumns and warm springs. Rain or wind, snow or sun, there was something that felt good, healthy, and whole about the land that Draenor had long lacked. It felt ungrateful to dislike or resent the weather, as she was at the moment.  
  
It had been raining on and off for the past week. Early Spring tended to be a somewhat miserable time of year, when the clouds couldn't quite decide if they wanted snow or rain, and the wind whipped the great tower of Karazhan with relish. The sky was as grey and as grim as Garona's mood. Khadgar had spent much of the week in his room and Medivh in his own chambers, though she had managed to convince the former to join her in the library. She almost wished she hadn't.  
  
 _With all of that wind, we could sail across to the other continent and find out if the weather isn't so piss-awful there,_  Garona thought sourly as Khadgar sighed again. “What's  _wrong_?” Garona demanded. “You've been making so much noise it's impossible to even think!”  
  
“I'm sorry,” Khadgar said, and closed the book he was trying to read with a snap, pushing it away from him before grinding the palms of his hands into his eyes. “I'm just in a rather bad mood.”  
  
“I wouldn't have guessed,” Garona snapped, and then took a breath to calm herself. “What happened?”  
  
“I don't know,” Khadgar admitted, still rubbing at his eyes. “It could just be the weather, or... we haven't been given a lesson or an assignment in a week.”  
  
Garona reached over, tugging his hands back from his eyes, and kept her fingers wrapped around his wrists. “He's busy, Guardian business. You've seen the letters, haven't you?”  
  
“Of course, I usually answer them,” Khadgar replied, looking down at her hands for a moment, a blush creeping along his neck. “He hasn't let me read any of them in at least as long.”  
  
She thought back to the last report she'd given and the grim cast to Medivh's expression. “He's busy and things are serious. We're adults, we can keep ourselves occupied.”  
  
“But I'm  _bored_ ,” Khadgar mumbled, and Garona shifted her grip, taking him by the hands and pulling him into a standing position. “What are you doing?”  
  
“We're going to find something for you to do, before  _I_  find something for you to do,” Garona said. “And you won't like what I have to suggest.”  
  
“I wonder about that,” Khadgar muttered, but refused to elaborate further. Garona released one hand so she could open doors and lead him down to to the common areas of the tower, where the servants worked in silence, sweeping and cleaning.  
  
“Is there another opera coming soon?” Garona asked one of the maids as she passed by, and the maid started, surprised to see them.  
  
“No, Mistress Garona,” she replied. “The mistress of servants, her that guards our virtue and gives us orders, told us t' start cleanin' everythin', top t' bottom. Is there somethin' you need, Mistress?”  
  
“No, no,” Garona said, glancing over at Khadgar. “We were just curious. Weren't we?”  
  
Khadgar remained silent, made a pained noise when she kicked him, and added, “Yes, curious.”  
  
“Mmm,” the maid said, glancing between them. “The mistress is free if you happen t' have more questions.”  
  
“Thank you,” Garona said, and tugged Khadgar along with her. “They're doing the spring cleaning a month early.”  
  
“Yes, it's usually High Spring, isn't it,” Khadgar said. “I wonder if Moroes knows why?”  
  
“I fear Moroes does not know, Master, Mistress,” said the butler from behind them, causing both Garona and Khadgar to jerk and turn around. “Though we have all of the staff on shift today, even some of the villagers. Master Medivh wishes for his tower to be clean.”  
  
“Do you have any idea why?” Garona asked.  _If anyone will know..._  
  
“Not... exactly,” Moroes said, hesitating. “He did say he was expecting someone soon.”  
  
“Someone? A new student?” Khadgar asked. “Or a messenger?”  
  
“I believe, Master Khadgar, he said we would have a guest.”  
  
Garona opened her mouth to ask a question when she heard a crack splitting the air violently, like a piece of wood or a bone snapping. She was not alone; several of the maids shrieked at the sound, dropping baskets and bundles of clothes to clap their hands over their ears.  
  
 _What's going on?!_  Garona wondered, even as she considered pulling Khadgar through the shadows with her to get them both somewhere safer. She settled for pulling him behind one of the grand ballroom pillars, with a wall at their backs.  
  
From one moment to the next, a figure appeared in the centre of the ballroom. They were clad in long, white robes, trimmed in gold along the wide sleeves, the collar, and the hem that brushed the newly cleaned floors. Around their shoulders was a huge, grey, hooded cloak, and after a moment, hands came up to tug the hood back. The new arrival was a woman, her hair long and auburn, and as she looked around, her ageless green eyes found them with little effort. She flicked her gaze between them, and while there was some resemblance between them, there was nothing of Medivh's warmth within her features.  
  
“My... lady. Welcome,” Moroes stuttered, and Garona was taken aback, having never seen the butler so ruffled. “What brings you--”  
  
“Moroes,” the woman said, fixing her gaze on the butler. “Where is Medivh?”  
  
“Why, in his quarters, but--”  
  
“I suggest that you and your fellow servants leave Karazhan immediately,” the woman said, cutting him off with a sharp gesture. “Out of Deadwind Pass, if you can manage it.”  
  
“What's going on?” Khadgar demanded, finding his voice first. “Who are you, how did you get past the wards?”  
  
 _Only a Guardian can break these wards,_  Garona recalled, and she felt her eyes grow wide. “You're Aegwynn. Aren't you?”  
  
The woman – the immortal Guardian Aegwynn, friend of the Dragonflights – ignored Khadgar and looked to Garona, pursing her lips. “I see. He's quite shameless, isn't he?”  
  
“We're his students and his guests,” Khadgar persisted, though she paid little attention to him. “There's no shame in taking apprentices, and he's always behaved entirely appropriately towards both of--”  
  
“You have no idea of the truth of the situation,” Aegwynn said dismissively. “Be silent, child, and leave with the servants. You are out of your depth and these affairs concern you not.”  
  
“You sound just like the Council at their most cryptic,” Khadgar accused, and this of all things caused her to glance at him sharply. “Why not just tell us what's going on?”  
  
“I am nothing like--” She caught herself. “Very well, come, but be wary and prepare to protect yourself and your fellow... guest.” Her lip curled in a sneer and she drew her cloak around her in a great swirl, walking towards the wall.  
  
Aegwynn spoke in an archaic tongue, holding both hands out, flat to the wall. Garona felt her skin prickle as power surged around them. The wall peeled back, and Garona realized the whole thing was an illusion, revealing plain, grey stone and the passage Medivh had brought her through when she'd arrived as a guest.  
  
“Keep up if you care to,” Aegwynn said, and marched through the doorway. Khadgar gaped wordlessly, but Garona hurried to follow her. The Guardian strode along the hallway, holding one hand out in front of her. On her middle finger she wore a silver ring, set with a huge green stone that flickered and glowed like a torch in front of her, and before long, she came to the entrance to the upper floors of Karazhan. A second surge of magic, like the first, caused the entrance to explode outwards, filling the hallway with debris.  
  
“Garona, what's going on?” Khadgar asked, quiet and urgent. “This shouldn't be happening.”  
  
“It's not technically our business,” Garona muttered, even as she stepped over the stones. Aegwynn was opening the library doors, searching each one for her target, and Garona watched her warily. “We should get our things and clear out.”  
  
“Why would I do that?” Khadgar demanded, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Yes, that's the most powerful mage in existence, and yes she can do what she wants but Medivh is our teacher! What right does she have to barge into his tower and start destroying things?”  
  
 _Because he's a traitor to humanity,_  Garona thought desperately.  _Because he's been working with Gul'dan and will see to the destruction of everything you hold dear. Because now this place means everything to me, and Medivh, and--_  
  
“No right at all,” said the Master of Karazhan from behind them, and they started first. “Students, get out of the way.”  
  
“What's going on?” Khadgar demanded. “Why is Guardian Aegwynn here? Why—”  
  
Garona tugged at his arm urgently, trying to pull him to the side. “This is how it must be,” she said, anguish swelling in her throat. “Step aside.”  
  
“You know?!” Khadgar said, turning in her grip. “You've been keeping secrets?”  
  
“I had to,” Garona began. “I--”  
  
“Medivh Aran,” Aegwynn said, her voice booming around them. “Guardian of Tirisfal, son of Nielas Aran, you have been charged by the Six with crimes against God and man. You will submit to me immediately and quietly, or you will be dealt with in the appropriate manner.”  
  
“Ah, yes. Of course.” Medivh smiled slowly. “Figured it all out, have they, Mother? All of my schemes, all of my ploys?” Aegwynn regarded him coldly. “It's your fault, you realize. So arrogant, so sure. So certain that you'd stopped me. Dragon friend. Aegwynn the Immortal.”  
  
“The body is still sealed,” Aegwynn replied simply, and cupped one of her hands. Fire gathered within it, casting her face into flickering relief. “I swear that I will lie dead before I allow you to walk this world once again... demon.”  
  
“Demon?” Khadgar asked. “But there are no demons, not since...” His eyes widened in horror, looking from Aegwynn to Medivh. “It can't be...”  
  
“I warned you, didn't I, that there was more to this world than was categorized by your precious council,” Medivh said. In the flickering light of Aegwynn's spell, his expression changed. His beard seemed to grow longer, copper and tangled, and his hair wild. His eyes shone with an unholy flame, and he exhaled, a thin plume of smoke surrounding him like a halo. “Die.”  
  
With that, Medivh lunged at her, wreathed in fire. From one moment to the next, he summoned his staff, a huge length of white oak topped with a raven's figure that seemed to screech at them, its eyes burning red. Aegwynn hurled a ball of fire at him and summoned a silver-bladed sword, parrying his strike easily, the blade leaving a white-red afterimage as it swung through the air. Medivh grinned fiercely, smoke trailing from his nostrils. Aegwynn, by contrast, was grim with tension, her mouth set in a thin line. Only the faintest hints of anger and disgust around the corners of her eyes, age illuminated by magic, gave hint to depths of her emotional state.  
  
At the point where their weapons met, purple energy crackled and sparked before exploding, hurling them back from one another. Medivh hurtled towards a smouldering bookcase and Aegwynn into one of the tables that split in half from the force of it, though neither mage seemed to be hurt. Aegwynn raised her arms, and swirling blades of ice formed in the air, spun in a circle, and flung themselves at Medivh. He raised a hand and summoned a giant, fiery shield that absorbed most of the bolts, but one scored a cut along his arm. His blood welled and dripped, hissing as it fell, burning into the floor like the acid rains of Draenor.  
  
“We... we have to stop them,” Khadgar managed, staring at the destruction, tongues of flickering flame reflected in his eyes. Every line of his face spoke of anguish and loss. “The Old Man... the Lady... they're destroying everything.”  
  
Aegwynn's expression allowed for the faintest hint of emotion, smirking, but quickly lost even that simplest of muscle twitches as Medivh's shield exploded, sending fire everywhere. Chunks of burning magic struck the bookshelves, blowing apart some of the shelves. Khadgar wrapped his arms around Garona tightly and she felt his magic sing around her, while her forehead was pressed into his shoulder as he clung to her, as much out of comfort as protection.  
  
“Yes,” she said, voice rough with pain. “This may be the only way. He... he's a demon. I didn't think, I didn't realize--”  
  
As she looked up, Garona's eyes widened, and she tugged at Khadgar urgently. When he refused to move, she elbowed him hard, and dragged him behind one of the broken tables. No sooner were they safe when the bookshelf under which they were hiding collapsed, spilling its contents all over the floor. Several of the books immediately caught fire. Aegwynn let loose a circle of frost, and each of the burning books hissed, sparked, and exploded into a cloud of pages, though the fires stopped.  
  
“You knew, though. You knew something was wrong,” Khadgar said, coughing from the smoke, but he held tight to the idea, like a dog with a bone. “Why didn't you say anything?”  
  
“Tell you he was a traitor, you mean?” Garona asked. “You knew I was a spy. Did you not think why he knew so quickly?”  
  
While the former Guardian was distracted, the present one filled his hands with arcane darts and hurled them at Aegwynn, the darts tearing through her robes and pinning her to one of the shelves. She yanked at her sleeve and snarled at him wordlessly. He smiled darkly as he conjured fire, brighter and hotter than before and hurled it at her. From one moment to the next, Aegwynn was there and then she was gone, and the wall buckled, melting, then crumbled down, spilling the last of the books and shelves onto the floor in a great, messy heap.  
  
Khadgar coughed into his hand. “No! I just thought... what did you tell him?”  
  
“All of the history, all of the things I knew,” Garona replied, and grabbed his arm. “We need to move.”  
  
Garona tugged at Khadgar again, and with a little prompting, they moved through into the next library, slipping and tripping over more destroyed books, searching for better shelter. She hurried to one of the tables and tipped it over, creating a barricade, and after a moment, Khadgar was with her, piling up chairs and quickly enchanting them to protect them against fire and frost. No sooner had they hunkered down than Medivh went flying through the opening, crashing into one of the bookshelves. Aegwynn quickly followed, harried by the wooden raven from atop Medivh's staff. She turned hurriedly, and cleaved the wooden bird in two and it fell to the ground, inert as common wood.  
  
Khadgar cried out, and Aegwynn turned back to see Medivh flinging a huge shard of ice at her, seeking to impale her. She met it with fire, and it exploded into pieces, sending icy blades everywhere, tearing into books and embedding in shelves, only to melt as flames flickered around Aegwynn, her lips drawn back in a snarl of anger. She made a series of sharp gestures in the air, and the flames that surrounded her formed into the shape of a flying, winged beast. It screeched and dove at Medivh, and he created a nearly identical beast, thinner and with more delicate wings, and it spit purple, arcane sparks flickering. Aegwynn eyed it with distaste.  
  
“Dragons,” Khadgar breathed. “Look at that detail.”  
  
“It'll get us killed if it's the wrong kind of detail,” Garona muttered.  
  
The dragons circled and dove at one another, clawing and scrabbling while both mages stared at each other, catching their breaths. For a moment, there was quiet. Paper smouldered and burned, loosened and damaged bookshelves fell and clattered to the floor, but all either mage did was stare. Garona's hand went to the sheath hidden beneath her sleeve. Her heart clenched painfully at the idea.  
  
She caught Medivh staring at her, and even as his lips worked silently, she felt her heart leap to her throat and even behind the barricade, she threw herself flat, then peeked around the side. Medivh's dragon was growing fainter and thinner, glowing. Aegwynn's dragon soared in, getting its fiery jaws around the other dragon's slender neck. Medivh grinned, and his dragon exploded into arcane fragments, destroying Aegwynn's dragon and causing her to stagger back.  
  
“What will Gul'dan do now?” Khadgar asked urgently. “With Medivh on his side?”  
  
“If he was willing to help directly, the orcs wouldn't still be stuck at Stormwind,” Garona said, shaking her head. Khadgar's expression hardened.  
  
“It won't fall, no matter what you or anyone else wants,” Khadgar said, and ducked as one of the globes went flying overhead, splitting open against the wall, spilling out a small amount of sawdust.  
  
In the air, an after-image of the dragon burned, fading from slender and blue to a skeleton that seemed to scream silently before fading. Medivh began to laugh, but stopped abruptly to dodge away from a ball of raw, arcane magic that impacted against the wall, shattering it. He ducked through the opening, waving away the stone dust as he hurried away from her. Aegwynn, her face twisted in anger and hate, pursued him, throwing another arcane orb at him, and another. Her sword cut through the air, sending a sharp, thin blade of arcane energy flying to him, striking him in the chest and driving him to her knees. Garona scrabbled through the hole to see what was about to happen, and Khadgar followed her. By the time they arrived, she was standing over him, the glory of her robes a ruin, but her eyes ablaze with anger.  
  
“I  _don't_  want it to fall, I had no other choice,” Garona hissed. “I just want the orcs to live, the hunters and the farmers and the slaves that suffered on Draenor.”  
  
Khadgar's eyes lit up, despite the haze of magic and smoke. “If you truly feel that way, there could be a way to--”  
  
“Enough!” Aegwynn cried, pointing her sword at Medivh's throat. He was on one knee, coughing and panting. Much of his humanity had been burned away, but enough remained that he was vulnerable to the ancient former-Guardian. His hand, white-knuckled from the effort, gripped at his staff as he looked up at her with burning hate. Aegwynn continued, pronouncing each word as the sentence it was, a judgement from on high. “Submit and you will not die here. You will be sealed away and the demon extracted.”   
  
“I fear I do not have ten thousand years to languish underground while you work your magic,” Medivh said, and Khadgar and Garona glanced at each other.  
  
“Why is he referencing an elven folktale?” Khadgar murmured. “There's surely no truth in it.”  
  
“You say that about every folktale,” Garona hissed back, watching avidly. The demon seemed to smile at her. She felt a frisson of fear down her spine, and she clutched at Khadgar's arm.  
  
 _She has him by the throat, so why--_  
  
The room around them lit up, flickering with unholy flames and the anguished ghosts of the damned. It reminded Garona of the Twisting Nether, the place she passed through to get to Azeroth and the place she skimmed in and out of as she walked through shadows. Khadgar threw up a free hand to guard his face, but Aegwynn remained still.  
  
“I will not go down so easily,” Medivh hissed. “Through me, this kingdom, this world shall fall... but you will not be here to see it.” He pointed a finger towards Garona and Khadgar.  
  
 _We have to move, we have to get out of here!_  Garona thought frantically, and felt her mind blank under her teacher's fearful assault. Nothing came to mind, nothing helpful, nothing but raw terror. As Medivh's mouth opened to speak the final words, Aegwynn released her sword and pointed at them.  
  
“Go!” she cried, and Garona felt as though she had been grabbed by a huge hand and thrown bodily out one of the great windows. The spell smashed through the huge glass panes and they flew through the air into the sheeting rain. Lightning struck all around Garona as the air boomed with thunder. Khadgar's arm was still under her hand, and she saw that he flew with her. Almost swallowed by all of the other sound came a mad, terrible cackle.  
  
“Got you.”  
  
The top of the tower exploded into a shower of glass, stone, and magic. For a moment, Garona thought that the demon meant that he could still reach them, but even as the magic rippled from the tower with the force of a heavy stone striking a smooth lake surface, she saw that she was wrong. Even as arcane force ripped into the village buildings, tearing off roofs and shattering walls and fences, the majority of the spell struck not at her or Khadgar, now being well out of the range of the full force of its impact, but at Aegwynn herself, who took the brunt of it.  
  
Over the booming thunder, Aegwynn screamed and disappeared.  
  
“No... no...” Khadgar whispered as they floated gently downwards, the spell cradling them and protecting them from the force that was killing Tower's Shadow Village and all of its people.  
  
 _If that's what's happening out here, what about those still in the tower? Attumen and Moroes, the little maids... we had guests too, and they knew nothing..._  Garona blinked hard, even as they fell to rest gently in the middle of the town's square.  
  
“We have to look for survivors,” Garona said. Khadgar had already opened his mouth to speak different words.  
  
“We have to get out of here,” Khadgar was saying. “The Council must know... the Guardian corrupted, and Lady Aegwynn...” He bit back a choked noise. “If there's anyone left to stop him after that.”  
  
“Someone might still be alive!” Garona insisted. “We can't be the only ones. We can't...”  
  
They stared at each other for a long time, chests heaving, soaked and dripping, eyes wide with fear. Movement at the edge of their vision broke them from their stand off, and they both looked over.  
  
“Da... Da, where are you..?” they heard faintly, and Garona hurried over, pulling aside splintered boards to find Duncan Senturus struggling, filthy, but alive and glowing faintly. Not far from him was his father's body, impaled by a jagged piece of wood.  
  
“He's gone to his ancestors,” Garona said, lifting him up and slinging him over a shoulder. “Khadgar--”  
  
“We need to go,” Khadgar insisted. His expression was grim and haggard, as though he had not slept in many weeks. “This whole area is contaminated now. If we stay to look for survivors, we'll all die. Well. Duncan and I will. You seem fine.”  
  
“I'll die if I have to try to walk to Stormwind,” Garona said.  _And then die when I get there, because the humans will only see green skin._  The feeling evoked an absurd bitterness considering the situation. “What do I have to do?”  
  
“Hold him, and stay close,” Khadgar instructed. Taking a breath that nearly ended in him choking on dust, he traced glittering purple runes in the air, muttering to himself. In her arms, Duncan revived enough to start to struggle.  
  
“What… what happened? What’s going on?” he muttered, and Garona held him tightly.  
  
“It’s over now, I promise,” Garona said with assurance she didn’t feel. “We need to go.”  
  
“But… why would he do this?” he wondered sadly. “We never did anything wrong.”  
  
 _No one ever really deserves to be hurt,_  Garona thought as he slumped again.  _Please don't die, little human. Be a survivor. One of the only survivors._  
  
Garona sidled in as close as possible as Khadgar finished the spell. The teleportation was not a gentle one. It was rough and sudden, and despite knowing it was coming, Garona's stomach twisted violently. She dug her fingers into Duncan's back and Khadgar's arm, though the latter seemed not to feel it. There was a sensation of falling from a great height, and when next Garona could see, Khadgar was collapsing to his knees, and she was trying to hold him upright while struggling under Duncan's heavy weight.  
  
 _He's fainted,_  Garona thought frantically as she clutched at Khadgar one-handed.  _I have to figure out where we are, how to find a human healer without having them report me to the warriors, and—_  
  
“You know, Nielas always told my father he should have the Keep warded against magic, but my grandfather always felt that true battles were fought with swords and fists, not spells,” spoke a voice. It was youthful, human-sounding, and male. His tone was conversational, but as Garona looked around to see where she was, she could only both curse and praise Khadgar's accuracy.  
  
She stood before a great throne made from a seemingly impossible amount of gold, gleaming in the light of a dozen torches, padded with fine blue silk with gold trim. It was as different from Blackhand’s black iron and skull-adorned monstrosity as could be. A man sat on the throne, dressed in blue and gold, his hair gleaming in the same light. His eyes were blue, and fixed on Garona so sharply that she felt pinned in place. Taking a breath, she wrenched her gaze to the man at his left. He was tall and broad-shouldered, resplendent in gleaming silver armour, a sword belted at his side. Even at a young age, his brown hair was thinning back and his expression sour. To the enthroned man's left was a woman, her hair chestnut brown and her eyes sharp and green. She was clothed in white garb too long to be a proper tunic, but too short to be a dress, and her grey trousers were visible beneath. She too bore a weapon, a mace, gleaming silver. While the man bore a rearing horse as his heraldry, her arms bore a creature that Garona had only seen on Draenor until this time, and it looked far fiercer than anything Zuluhed and his ilk had tamed.  
  
 _That's a dragon,_  she thought numbly.  
  
“I doubt these ones are part of any invading army, Llane,” the standing man said, looking over the three of them. “Unless they intend to throw children at us in an assassination attempt.”  
  
“I wouldn't be entirely sure of that, Anduin,” the woman said before the seated man could speak. “You, girl, what are you doing here? How did you come to be with two humans? Who told you that you could stand before the King?”  
  
“Easy, Mara,” Llane said, and he smiled. The expression was warm, friendly and welcoming, even as cunning sparkled behind his eyes. “Young lady – though, by my measure you're not much younger than any of us are, save perhaps our own dear Archbishop – turn your companion's face towards me. Not the boy, the other one.”  
  
Garona was forced to lay Duncan on the floor so she could better hold up Khadgar, who stirred at the movement.  
  
“What.. oh. Here we are,” Khadgar mumbled, and Garona wanted to shake him, though out of relief or anger she found hard to decide.  
  
“We certainly are, you great fool,” Garona hissed, but did as she was told.  
  
“Hm, he's growing a bit more of a beard than the last time I saw him,” Llane commented. “Magister Khadgar, last seen on the way to Treewind Pass and the Tower of Karazhan.”  
  
“Majesty,” Khadgar managed before his eyes rolled back in his head and he fainted. Garona lowered him to the floor, and stood to face the humans alone.  
  
“Did the Lady Aegwynn not say she was on her way to Karazhan as well, though far more recently?” Mara asked Llane, and he nodded slightly.  
  
“I... I regret to inform you that Lady Aegwynn is dead,” Garona said slowly, drawing all eyes to her. “And that is not... the worst of the news I have for you.”  
  
Llane sat forward, and as he had been warm previously, he hardened, like the golden gleam on a suit of armour that was pure steel.  
  
“Tell me everything.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
Garona lay in a bed that was not hers, in a city that was not her home, staring into a darkness that did not welcome her, and wished that she could sleep. For the past three days she felt as though she had been drifting from one thing to another. The good news, at least, was that Khadgar and Duncan were under the care of the healers of Stormwind, though in this case, those healers were called 'priests', and they served the Light she had learned of in Karazhan. Duncan had woken quickly, though he was sullen and quiet, and Khadgar drifted in and out.  
  
That had left Garona to the interrogations. The king, Llane, had been polite, but intent, demanding much from Garona, and she had told him all that she knew, of the orcs and their intentions, though she was nearly three years out of date. Her head had ached by the time she was excused to rest, and even then, she could not sleep.  
  
 _What will become of us?_  Garona wondered. She shifted her hand and grasped at the pendant Khadgar had given her.  _Karazhan was my home. I won't go back to Gul'dan, I can't. I could go to Dalaran with Khadgar, but will they accept me there? Will they accept me anywhere? I--_  
  
The door opened, and Garona released the pendant and put a hand on the knife she kept under her pillow. Instead of tired, she was alert, angry though not afraid. She fixed her eyes on the shape illuminated in the doorway: they were short and thin, with a spiky mop of hair, and they seemed to be desperately trying to remain quiet, though as they walked their footsteps creaked along the floor.  
  
 _Not broad enough to match the pictures of dwarves,_  Garona thought.  _A gnome? But gnomes live far away usually, unless they brought one here. Azeroth does welcome anyone, but their last immigration bump was eighty years ago according to the census records._  
  
She let the intruder draw closer, and her hand gripped the hilt of her blade tightly, body tense to fight back against an assassination attempt, clumsy as this might be.  _Closer... closer..._  
  
The answer came readily enough: it was a boy, a human boy, dressed in too-large pajamas and with bare feet. His hair was dark brown and messy from sleep. He leaned in close, as if expecting to find her sleeping. When she stared back at him, he jumped back, startled, and fell backwards.  
  
“You shouldn't sneak into people's rooms at night,” Garona said, trying to keep her voice gentle, though she wanted to snarl at him.  _He's only a child, he doesn't deserve that._  She forced herself to release her blade, and pushed herself up into a sitting position. “Why are you here? Who are you?”  
  
“'m Varian,” said the boy. “Papa said there was an orc here, I wanted to see.”  
  
 _I'm not an orc,_  Garona thought, irritated.  _Why don't humans notice that not all green skin is equal?_  “Which one is your father?”  
  
“The right and honourable King Llane Wrynn, first of his name, ruler of Stormwind, Elwynn, Redridge, Duskwood, Westfall, and auxiliaries,” Varian said promptly, and Garona stared at him. He scuffed his foot against the floor. “I had to learn it.”  
  
“You're the Crown Prince,” Garona noted, staring at the child. “The king tells you things?”  
  
“No, he overheard Llane and I talking while he was  _supposed_  to be sleeping,” said a voice at the doorway, and Garona and Varian both looked towards it. This was a human woman, dressed in a long, trailing nightgown. Her hair was darker than Varian's, and her face was round and slightly soft. “My son, you have left your half of the bed cold.”  
  
“You  _told_ ,” Varian said accusingly, not to the woman, but to the figure half-hidden behind her.  
  
“She  _noticed_ ,” the figure said, his voice as youthful as Varian's, and full of indignity. “I said she would!”  
  
“Boys,” the woman said. “You're keeping our guest awake.” She held out a hand, and Varian stomped across the floor grumpily. “Your pardon, please sleep well.”  
  
The woman withdrew, and the door closed. After a moment, Garona found her trousers, pulled them on, hid the knife in her tunic, and hurried to follow. Varian and the other boy were arguing, swatting at each other around the woman with their free hands, while the woman seemed to bear it stoically, as though she had seen it all too often in the past. Garona walked along behind them, her footsteps silent, swallowed easily by shadows, and the floor was warm, heated from something beneath the floorboards.  
  
“Is this your son? Are you the queen?” Garona asked, and all three of them started at the sound of her voice. “I wasn't getting to sleep anyway.”  
  
“I am, yes,” the woman said. “My name is Adalia, and this is Bolvar, Lady Mara's son. He and Varian are quite good friends, usually.”  
  
“Not any more,” Varian grumped, and Bolvar flailed at him. Varian flailed back.  
  
“Boys, please,” Adalia said wearily. “Don't get yourselves worked up before bed.”  
  
“If you sleep, you might get better at sneaking into other people's rooms,” Garona noted, and both boys peered at her. She could see better now that Bolvar had Lady Mara's green eyes, and Varian dark brown ones.  _He takes after his mother, it seems, at least in looks._  “If you behave for your mother, I'll answer one of your questions before bed.”  
  
“You've been answering them all day,” Adalia murmured. “Thank you for that.”  
  
“It's the least i can do since I'm a—” Garona paused, and looked at Varian and Bolvar before continuing, “a guest.”  
  
“A guest indeed,” Adalia said. Garona trailed behind as Adalia brought both boys to a large, ornate room with toys scattered here and there, and slim books on low, wide shelves. The sight of them felt like a stab in the heart as she thought of all that had been destroyed. Adalia led them through the room and into an adjoining one. This room had a large, low bed with a canopy around three sides, though the curtains were drawn back and the blankets and sheets wrinkled and rumpled.  
  
“Go to the bathroom, then wash your hands and faces,” Adalia instructed, and both boys scrambled off to obey, footsteps dull thuds against the thick carpets. “I wish that it had not been tragedy that brought them together,” she noted with a sad smile. “The only home Bolvar has known was destroyed in the war, and I fear that is the story of many children now. It's difficult to be grateful that he is here and such good friends with Varian when he has lost so much.”  
  
“Where was he from?” Garona asked, listening to the faint sounds of laughter and splashing.  
  
“Northshire Abbey,” Adalia replied. “He and his mother lived there from his birth until relatively recently. Llane sheltered there when the war first started, but was called back when the King was killed. It was a sad day, though I rejoiced to meet Llane.”  
  
Garona glanced at the queen, and then towards the door, trying to gather her thoughts to ask the very rude question that had sprung to mind.  
  
“They are brothers in spirit, but not blood,” Adalia said. “I've had to answer that question many times since Lady Mara's arrival. Some people found it suspicious that Llane and I had no more children after Varian, but there are any number of witnesses that saw that that Mara was pregnant the day she came to the Abbey. There was, as they say, no time for anything else.”  
  
“I'm sure your husband honours you,” Garona said, cheeks flushed at being so transparent. “Fools will always gossip.”  
  
“I know whom my husband honours at all times,” Adalia noted. “The Wrynns are good kings.”  
  
“I know, and I'm sorry, about the previous one,” Garona said, glancing quickly towards the door. “I did not assassinate him, nor did any of the others. It was an ambush. Hunting tactics, and we didn't understand how human leadership functions. I know, now, but the others... it's hard to say if they even care.”  
  
“We aren't unfamiliar with conflict,” Adalia said as she fetched a chair, and Garona helped her drag it close to the bedside. “You don't train knights for peace. You train them for combat, for war. You don't use an army to repel a raid. We have... waited, I think. Azeroth has its enemies, all the human nations do, but this... we know trolls and goblins. We know of the dwarves and the gnomes. The elves, the gnolls, the kobolds, the murlocs, even the dragons, though they have not been seen in a long, long time. We did not live completely peaceful lives, but we had stability. We understood our place in the world. Now, all is changing. There is uncertainty.”  
  
“I don't know what's going to happen either,” Garona confessed, and Adalia raised an eyebrow. “It's always been my task to gather information, to bring it from the people who have it to the people who need it. Now I have a great deal of information about your people and this world, and it's not what the orcs want. They want to know how to kill you, not that you fight your enemies with a ferocity that rivals theirs. They want to know your weak points, not that you know what they are and have learned to protect them. They want you dead, not to know that more than anything else, you want to live.”  
  
Adalia was quiet for a moment, then smiled. “I believe that I can live with disappointing our enemies in such a case. You said you've told the orcs about us... what will you tell them now?”  
  
“Nothing,” Garona replied, a hint of anger in her voice. “They will never find me here, never guess that I came to Stormwind. I hope they think I died in Karazhan, in the explosion, with so many others. I won't help them destroy you. I promise.”  
  
“Thank you,” Adalia replied, and touched lightly over her heart. “That promise means much to Llane and I both, as it will mean much to the people of Azeroth.”  
  
Garona nodded, and saw the boys hurrying back out, presenting themselves before the queen for the inspection of ears, to wipe damp hands, and to tuck both boys into bed. As big as the bed was, as small as they were, they seemed lost amid the white and blue.  
  
“Do all close friends share a bed?” Garona murmured, and Adalia smiled.  
  
“They will grow out of it, or they will not, and it makes them happy,” she replied. “Now, our guest has agreed to answer  _one_  question. One of you may ask.”  
  
There was a brief moment of whispering between the boys, and finally, Varian spoke.  
  
“How did you get here?” he asked.  
  
“That's a vague question,” Garona said. “Do you mean, how did I get to Stormwind, or how did the orcs get to Azeroth?”  
  
“Both!” Varian exclaimed, and Bolvar nodded. Adalia and Garona exchanged a long look.  
  
“Alright,” Garona said. “I'll tell you.”


	11. Chapter 11

'...and then the Great Sands and Whirlwind clans were absorbed into the Stonefist clan, giving Blackhand several thousand warriors along with three times the number of crafters and farmers, as well as granting him control of the northern portion of the lands near the Devouring Sea.'  
  
Garona paused, blowing gently on the glistening ink. Once he had learned that Garona could read and write in the local human tongue, Llane had asked her to record what she knew of orc history as well as simply telling the story aloud.  
  
_There's a different rhythm to it,_  Garona mused. She shifted in her seat, pulling the long, tight braid of hair out from between her back and the wooden seat, and pushed it off to the side. Humans wore their hair like this, and she had copied it. Khadgar had said it suited her. It was different from an orcish braid, meant less as decoration and more to keep her hair from her face. Unfortunately, wisps tended to escape from it and catch instead on the clasps of her tunic, or cracks in the wood of chairs.  
  
The tunic itself was human-made, like the one Medivh had given her during Winter Veil, but was otherwise as different as could be. The fallen Guardian had brought her measurements to the tailors of Tower's Shadow Village and they had made her clothing for her in rich browns, greens, and greys. These clothes were given to her from the Keep's spares based on best fit, stark white and bright blue, embroidered with gold. She would have found the clothes a nuisance had they been her own.  
  
_It is kindness,_  Garona insisted to herself as she adjusted the tunic again, and smoothed her trousers.  _Human kindness. They are at war, there is little time for custom-made clothing._  She stretched briefly, and considered her work.  _I will go for a walk, I think, to clear my thoughts and perhaps see Khadgar._  
  
She had scarcely seen her friend and fellow apprentice over the months she had been residing in Stormwind's keep. Once he had recovered, he had sought out the mages of the Goldenspire Academy to query them about magical teachings outside of Dalaran, and since then he had been constantly busy, trying to cram years’ worth of the academic study of magic that was both like and unlike his own education into only a dozen weeks.  
  
_I'm searching for some way to deal with Medivh,_  Khadgar had told her, when he had not been too busy to speak to her.  _His father was Stormwind's court conjurer until he died, and he was the first to do battle with Sargeras, or so I’ve deduced from Abbey's records. He must have done something, managed somehow to keep the demon at bay. He must have finally lost control that day._  
  
She had only nodded and agreed. Even now, only Llane knew the truth, Llane and Medivh both.  _He was working with Gul'dan all along. Without his intervention, we would be starving and dying. All it cost was the lives of more and more warriors, theirs and ours._  Still, she hoped that Khadgar was right, that somewhere there was a key to defeating Medivh.  
  
Garona capped the inkwell, both so similar and very different from the pots of paint that orcs used to write, and dipped the quill into a dish of water, waving it from side to side to clean it before drawing it out again, shaking it briefly, and then drying it on a soft, ink-stained cloth. Everything about the human process of writing was fascinating to her, even the cleaning, and though being hunched over day after day as she recorded what she knew for the human king made her back ache, her fingers curl, and stained her sleeves and fingers if she was incautious, she still looked forward to it.  
  
_I will be a teller of tales,_  Garona decided.  _Instead of gathering people by the fire, I will put pen to paper and let the stories travel for me. When I run out of stories to tell about the orcs, I will travel this world and gather the stories of humans and dwarves, gnomes and elves, goblins and trolls. I won't need to lift my blade at anyone's command._  
  
Carrying that in her heart, she left the sunlit room she had been granted to do her writing and began to walk. Like the orcs, humans carried their prestige with them, on tabards and shields bearing the coats-of-arms of noble families instead of the rune-inscribed banners of clans. While orcs wove their heritage into blankets and worked it into leather, humans created huge tapestries depicting old battles. Garona paused at the foot of one of them, looking over a stylized depiction of Adamant Wrynn's rise to power and the death of the last Baewynn king.  
  
_My talent is with blades instead of needles, but after the war is over, I can commission someone to record the great battles and the moment of peace._  Garona tried to focus on that idea, that moment of peace, and found it harder than imagining her own future.  _There are too many fools in the Horde, too many to dig and claw through. If they didn't need to follow that idiot Blackhand, or--_  
  
"Who goes-- oh. It's you."  
  
Garona spun to face the voice, daggers loose in their sheaths and ready to be drawn at any moment. Behind her stood two guards, dressed in the blue-and-gold lion livery of Azeroth. With the suddenness of her movement, the guards dropped their hands to their swords. Suspicion to recognition to anger flashed across the humans' faces, all in an instant. The moment stretched on.  
  
"Don't... sneak up on me," Garona said slowly, forcing herself to relax. "I'm easily startled."  
  
"Your pardon, Miss Garona," one of the guards said, moving his hand from the hilt of his sword. "We weren't expecting to see you."  
  
"You're very quiet," added the second. "Like a sneak thief or--"  
  
_An assassin,_  Garona thought as the first guard elbowed the other. "I'm just taking a walk. I intend to visit Magister Khadgar, and the prince. I've promised him another story."  
  
A look of disbelief flashed on the guards' faces at the mention of Varian, but it disappeared just as Garona noticed it. Anger at their doubt stirred in her heart, and she forced it back, to nod to the guards. She passed by them, securing her arm sheaths as she walked. Her pace was not quite swift enough to take her out of hearing range of the guards' muttered conversation:  
  
"Can't believe the king's letting one of them into the city."  
  
"I keep expecting to see half a dozen more. Can't trust 'em."  
  
_If you had seen what I have seen, you wouldn't doubt me,_  Garona thought, seething.  _At least Varian understands._  She tried to focus on the young prince, letting it calm her. Varian was always eager to hear what she had to say, and the one bedtime story she had promised him had become a dozen, though she was careful to keep the stories to what his parents believed he could handle.  _I don't want to speak of our plagues either, or of the abandoned. That's not something a child needs to hear._  
  
No longer interested in confronting other humans, she turned to a shadowy alcove and stepped into it, letting herself melt utterly into darkness. It took little time for her to emerge in the courtyard of Goldenspire Academy.  
  
Stormwind City boasted only a single great mage tower whereas from what Khadgar had told her, Dalaran had a great citadel. Dalaran, he noted, had been founded first and foremost for mages, whereas Azeroth was a refuge of sorts for all kinds, many of them unsavoury. Instead of drawing from the tried and true methods of the Kirin Tor, the Goldenspire mages used unconventional methods of teaching, heavily emphasizing conjuring above transmutation, and direct elemental manipulation instead of enchantment.  
  
_Khadgar can go on for hours about it,_  Garona thought with no small amount of fondness.  _If he's not careful, he's going to wind up eternally being a student instead of moving on to Archmage._  
  
The Academy itself was far from Stormwind Keep, closer to Stormwind Harbour. When she had asked about it, and the security concerns, she had been told that the mages were strong enough to protect themselves, but there was a faint hint of apprehension that something might go wrong. Since the destruction of Karazhan and the village that surrounded it during a battle between two of the world’s most powerful mages, Garona couldn’t quite fault them.  
  
Instead of a village, Goldenspire sat amidst a garden overshadowing a handful of decorative trees. Garona stopped to touch one briefly, its leaves waxy, though she had been assured the tree was ‘real’ -- and then been surprised by the existence of false trees at all -- by the gardeners that tended them, ignoring the occasional floating candle.  
  
Like Karazhan, the Academy was located inside a tower that had expanded upwards rather than outwards, its gold trimmed white walls gleaming in the sunlight. There were several entrances on the bottom floor, everything from the grand doors to greet guests to the small, discreet doors meant for cleaning staff and gardeners. After a brief moment’s hesitation, she went in one of the smaller doors, wanting no fuss made about her arrival. From experience, she knew the grand entrance had a huge set of stairs, meant to impress guests and intimidate younglings, and neatly carried new arrivals over the hub of servant activity. Some claimed that other mages, like the elves and the mages of Dalaran, had magical servants, but here they were real, solid humans, sent to mop floors and dust bookshelves.  
  
_Medivh had some servants, but only for the parts of his tower that guests saw,_  Garona reflected as she moved past some servants armed with brooms and dustpans.  _He left the care of laboratories and libraries to us._  
  
Considering the volume of students within the Academy, this might have been impractical. Equally, it seemed impractical for bright-eyed, fresh-faced teenagers to clean the dozen-odd classrooms they were marched in and out from, each assigned to a different teacher. There were no private lessons in shadow walking here, no quiet evenings curled up by the fire asking questions. Instead there were organized classrooms, homework assignments, and practices.  
  
_There are no such evenings in Karazhan either,_  Garona thought briefly, and pushed the thought aside as hurt swelled within her. Above the classrooms were the laboratories: special rooms warded with magic to contain experimentation. As she peeked in while she walked by the rooms, one lab had a dozen mage students, directed by a teacher, practicing conjuration. In another, two senior students were drawing a great summoning circle, and at a glance Garona could tell they intended to summon a water elemental from the Abyssal Depths to serve them.  
  
_I wonder if the orcs could learn this way,_  Garona mused.  _We have no schools either. Teaching is most often done by parents, or elders if their parents are busy or absent._  A faint hint of apprehension prickled across her.  _Not that I would want this many to learn what I learned, or how!_  
  
Above the laboratories was the library. It was huge, filling multiple floors of the already large tower, and there were staircases within it to reach all of the books. Rather than separating out books into different categories, all the books were here, organized not only by title or author, but also by subject. Each topic was proclaimed in carved brass and marked by a pair of letters from the Common tongue, which corresponded to a specific subject marked in a great catalogue.  
  
_We definitely could use a catalogue,_  Garona thought wistfully.  _There’s a reason why ‘I have forgotten more than you’ll ever know’ is a saying, but it shouldn’t be so! Knowledge should be remembered, not forgotten, not buried. If people_  knew… She sighed.  _But the warlocks thrive on the ignorance of others, and so do the rest of us._  
  
Adjoining the library were study rooms. Like the laboratories, these rooms were warded, but against sound rather than misfired spells. Here, young mages or old could find a place to read undisturbed by the chatter of others, or avoid bothering others with same. Garona looked between each room, finding a trio of students in one, dressed as student mages: a human boy, his red hair gleaming, gesturing enthusiastically, in the midst of telling some manner of story or another. A second human boy was sitting slumped against the table, chin cupped in one hand as his black hair fell over green eyes, and he pushed it away, impatient, revealing an odd-shaped scar.  
  
_Did someone strike him?_  Garona wondered with a frown. The final student, a human girl with brown hair that seemed to surround her hair in a halo, rolled up a piece of paper and smacked each of the boys with it, and even without sound, Garona could hear her order them to concentrate. Garona shook her head slightly.  _Humans are odd._  
  
The next two rooms were empty, but not the third. It was there she found Khadgar, a number of books stacked around him. He was hunched over a thick tome, not looking at the notebook as he scribbled in it. At his other elbow was a mug of tea that, at a glance, seemed stone cold. Silent as she was, Khadgar failed to notice her approach, and the candlelight only flickered as she stood behind him.  
  
"...and that means..." Khadgar muttered to himself.  
  
"What does it mean?" Garona asked, curious. Khadgar started, his elbow smacking firmly into the mug. Garona caught it in an instant, and set it on the table. "Hello, Khadgar."  
  
"Garona," the human mage replied, surprise quickly giving way to pleasure. "I didn't hear you come in."  
  
"No, you were lost in a book," Garona observed, not bothering to point out that he wouldn't have heard her anyway. "Did you find anything?"  
  
"I may, I may," Khadgar said. "I've been doing some reading."  
  
"You don't say," Garona murmured, though she retrieved a chair to sit next to him, scooting in close.   
  
Khadgar blinked, and his cheeks reddened before he cleared his throat. “There aren’t many records about Medivh,” he began. “The obvious is here, that the Guardian Aegwynn bore him to Court Conjurer Nielas Aran and left him in Stormwind, while she went to do Guardian… things.” Garona frowned, the flashes of the battle still vivid in her mind, but gestured for Khadgar to continue. “Nielas trained Medivh personally, outside the confines of the Academy, and well out of reach of the Kirin Tor and the Order of Tirisfal. He wasn’t actually aware of the Order at all until Medivh reached the age of fourteen.”  
  
“That seems unlikely and foolish,” Garona protested. “How could they not have known?”  
  
“The Guardian and the Order were secret,” Khadgar said. “Nielas had no true idea of who Aegwynn was before they, ah, coupled.”  
  
“It seems foolish to mate with someone you don’t know,” Garona muttered. “Unless you have no other choice.”  
  
“I think the time to question either of them about their personal choices has unfortunately passed,” Khadgar said. He tapped the book’s pages lightly. “When Medivh turned fourteen, his Guardian powers awoke with his nascent manhood--”  
  
“His  _what_?” Garona asked in disbelief, and Khadgar flushed. “That sounds like something from one of those books you read.”  
  
“It just means… the process of moving from child to adult--” Khadgar broke off. “How did you know about those?”  
  
“How do  _you_  think?;” Garona asked, raising a brow. Khadgar cleared his throat, and continued.  
  
“--causing a massive discharge of power that killed his father and left him in a coma for well over a decade.”  
  
“I can’t imagine losing that much time in what must seem like an instant,” Garona murmured, and calming, Khadgar nodded.  
  
“Neither can I, I hope no such thing ever happens to either of us,” he said feelingly. “Medivh was brought to Northshire Abbey and tended to by the clerics there until he awoke, fully in control of his power.”  
  
“Northshire Abbey was destroyed recently, wasn’t it? By the… Horde?” Garona asked, though she knew it to be true. Gul’dan had told her as much, bragged about it to Medivh, who had said nothing, not reacted to his sanctuary being destroyed.  
  
“It was, but some records were passed on before then.” Khadgar shook his head slightly. “I’m not much one for religion, but those archives… such a pity, and of course, the people who were displaced. I found some testimonies of those watching over Medivh. They claim they saw things, a hovering image with a smouldering beard.”  
  
_Sargeras,_  Garona thought, and her stomach clenched. “Could they have been mistaken?”  
  
“We can ask one of the witnesses,” Khadgar said. “Sir Lothar did his vigil there, they were friends in childhood. Not with the king, though. He would have been too young to remember him properly.”  
  
“Will this help?” Garona demanded. “Does seeing it happen help free him?”  
  
“Not directly,” Khadgar said, shaking his head. He set the book aside and pulled another towards him. “But whatever Nielas did clearly contained Sargeras’ power for a time, allowing Medivh to grow up relatively normally, become the Guardian, and move to Karazhan. I believe Nielas’ specialties tied into it, and if I can master those, I can contain the demon once more until it can be extracted. I have some theories, but of course, they’d only be good if tested.”  
  
“...and if you’re wrong?” Garona asked softly. “If you’re mistaken about this?”  
  
“...then we’ll need something to pray to, because I don’t know if we can kill him,” Khadgar murmured softly, and Garona’s stomach turned to ice.  
  
“We should… take this to the-- King,” Garona said. “We can’t go alone.”  
  
“No, of course not,” Khadgar said. “Let’s go.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
Llane listened gravely as Khadgar explained his findings. At his side, Anduin Lothar’s expression grew stormy, as it had the first time Garona had explained what had happened to Medivh.  
  
“I did see it, Llane,” he noted. “The visage. I’d no notion of what it was when I saw it. Thought I was hallucinating.”  
  
“I don’t blame you, mages are always odd,” Llane replied. “But this…”  
  
“I think I can contain him,” Khadgar said, and Garona noticed he accepted the supposed oddity of mages with nary a blink. “We would need to travel back to Karazhan, of course, and it could be quite risky, but if we can  _save_  Medivh--”  
  
“Is he still in contact with Gul’dan?” Llane asked, looking to Garona. She swallowed and nodded.  
  
“That seems likely, Your Majesty. They have maintained steady contact for at least ten years, closer to fifteen now, I believe. Gul’dan would want to be kept informed and make his plans based on that information.”  
  
Anduin and Llane exchanged a look, and Garona could all but see the calculations being done in their minds:  _Sargeras may have contacted Gul’dan while Medivh was still sleeping. If they believe there is no hope, no possibility that Medivh can be freed--_  
  
“It will be difficult to sneak up on him, then,” Anduin said finally, focusing on Khadgar. “How close in would you be able to get a force, and how big a force?”  
  
“Well,” Khadgar began, considering. “Medivh is very powerful, as the Guardian, though many of Karazhan’s natural defenses were destroyed in battle, though given time he could have repaired them--”  
  
“Vague answers won’t carry an army, boy,” Lothar snarled, and Khadgar drew back briefly. Garona stiffened, and Llane shook his head at her slightly. “Sure you aren’t just looking for an excuse to go back?”  
  
“What? No!” Khadgar cried, balling his hands into fists, looking absurd and small next to the mountainous Lion of Azeroth. “I was there when I saw Sargeras manifest. I know what kind of damage he’s done!”  
  
“But you’re trying to save him, boy. Soft and coddlesome!”  
  
“We may not be able to kill him!” Khadgar’s chest heaved, his eyes glittering with anger and hurt. “Some mages are like that, they have special spells that protect them from death. You have to strip them away, and that takes time. Someone would have to distract him so that it could be done!”  
  
“But you’d kill him? You’d kill him to save Azeroth?” Lothar demanded. Khadgar hesitated briefly. “You’re no good if you can’t commit!”  
  
“Khadgar’s never killed anyone before,” Garona interjected, putting her hand on Khadgar’s arm. “You can’t ask him such a question. If it comes down to it, I will. I’ll do it.”  
  
“Garona…” Khadgar murmured softly, and she shook her head. Anduin’s gaze shifted to her, and she met it steadily. As great and strong as the human was, he did not have a spark of madness in his eye, greed or lust for power.  
  
“We need to be certain of Khadgar because he will be the one to go with Anduin’s force to Karazhan,” Llane remarked after the silence stretched. “You will not be going with him.”  
  
“What?!” Garona cried, with Khadgar expressing his disbelief a moment later. “Why not?”  
  
“You’re needed here,” Llane said, his voice gentle. “You recall the messengers, do you not?”  
  
Garona was silent for a long moment before nodding.  _He’s looking for me,_  Garona thought.  _If Sargeras is talking to him again, he’ll know I’m here. Now he’s trying to find me._  “You haven’t had as much time to work on the translation spells, or teaching people written Orcish.”  
  
“No, which is why you must stay here. We could miss important information by the simple fault of not being able to read. If they bring verbal messages, and our defenses don’t kill them, you’ll need to translate what they’re saying. We need you here, Garona, in Stormwind.” The human king looked her over, and his expression was kind. “And Varian will miss you.”  
  
Garona looked away, fighting her disappointment. “I understand.”  
  
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Khadgar promised. “We’ll see each other again soon.”  
  
Garona nodded numbly.  _If you don’t fall where I can’t see you,_  she thought, fearful.  
  
“Speaking of Varian, would you go visit with him?” Llane asked, keeping his voice light. “We have matters we wish to discuss, and I believe he wanted you to observe his practice.”  
  
“Very well.” Garona bowed, as humans did, and left the throne room.  
  
~ * ~  
  
Stormwind Keep had two courtyards: an outer courtyard available to the citizenry, meant for picnics and revelry during happier times, and a beautiful inner courtyard, protected by high, white stone walls, meant only for the royal family and their guests. It was in the latter location that Garona found her targets, the Prince of Stormwind, his best friend, and his best friend’s mother.  
  
Mara Fordragon was barking orders, calling out an attack rhythm with a steady cadence. Varian, not quite a year younger than his friend, was on the offense, the wooden sword in his hand rising and falling. Bolvar, with bigger muscles, was defending with a shield, letting the inexperienced blows slide over his shield.  
  
_It would be rude to interrupt,_  Garona thought, and walked over to the only observer. This boy was older, closer to her age than theirs, and his expression was grave as he watched, though he flinched at each impact’s sound.  
  
“They aren’t hurting each other,” Garona began. The boy jerked and looked over at her. His hair was brown, cropped short at the sides and longer at the top, and he wore plain white robes. His hazel eyes widened at the sight of her, and then he made room on the bench so that she could sit. “Lady Mara has things well in hand, Uther.”  
  
The young priest nodded once. “I know. I’ve been watching Lady Mara get in practice since Bolvar was only a tiny baby. I used to watch him.” He smiled slightly. “He’s grown up a lot. Varian too.”  
  
“War makes adults of us all,” Garona murmured. Uther’s smile turned to a deep frown. “What is it?”  
  
“Is there really a need for war?” Uther asked. “My teacher, Archbishop Faol, says there isn’t, not ever. Mara’s always insisted there is. They… well, they fight over it.”  
  
“Still?” Garona asked. “Or only more recently?”  
  
“For as long as I’ve known her,” Uther confessed. “Violence is forbidden at the Abbey. He would never let her teach any of the other students how to fight. I… don’t think I’m very good at it. I built my strength up from doing chores. She says they’re all wrong without serious training.”  
  
“Let’s see,” Garona said, and Uther brought an arm up to flex briefly. “No, those are not warrior’s muscles. A fisher’s perhaps, or a farmer’s.” Uther sighed. “You aren’t trained, don’t be ashamed.”  
  
“I know,” Uther said. “That’s what Lady Mara tells me too. When the King -- he was the Prince then -- and Lady Mara were both at the Abbey, he told me that not everyone  _had_  to fight. That warriors and knights protect those who can’t.”  
  
“That’s very lucky if there are always warriors about,” Garona noted, considering. “But there aren’t always, especially if you won’t keep them or train them.”  
  
“That’s what Lady Mara says,” Uther replied. “She said that we must stand up for ourselves and protect others. It’s our duty, anyone who can pick up a sword. You can’t just constantly give ground, she said.”  
  
“She’s not wrong,” Garona pointed out. “Not all of the strong protect the weak. Sometimes they turn on them, they’re cruel. They leave bruises and broken bones as lessons.”  
  
Uther bowed his head. “I know. Trust me, I know.” Garona raised an eyebrow. “But the Archbishop says…” He paused, and she watched tension shiver over him as Mara called for the boys to switch positions, and now Varian took up the shield, defending against a stronger foe. “He says people use violence too much and too often to solve problems. That if they couldn’t just fall back to frightening people, they’d use their words, they’d think up peaceful solutions to problems. That the people you kill during war deserve to live too.”  
  
Garona thought of Draenor, of the harshness of the land, and the harshness of the warriors that it raised. She thought of her mother.  _Walk in the Light, my daughter._  She pushed it aside. “He’s not wrong, there are those who are too stupid to do anything but lift a blade. Do you think that’s so in the Lady’s case?” She tilted her head towards Mara. She held one hand behind her back, while she lifted the other, using motions to set the pace of their exercise.  
  
“No,” Uther whispered. “I know that the Archbishop believes all problems can be solved without violence, but Lady Mara is right that we all have a right to live. And just because we think we should solve problems without violence, doesn’t mean everyone will just agree with us and throw down their swords instead of fighting. We have to protect ourselves. To do anything else is negligent.”  
  
“Is that what Lady Mara says?” Garona asked, looking over at the human woman curiously. Uther shook his head.  
  
“That’s what the Prince said. It’s because he has to rule a kingdom. Archbishop Faol can stay in the Abbey and teach people. Lady Mara can go out on a battlefield to fight people. He has to make decisions that touch all kinds of lives, the warriors and the priests.” Uther sighed. “It’s hard to know what to do.”  
  
Garona considered. “Azeroth’s history has been very violent in the past. I’ve read lots of histories.”  
  
“I know,” Uther said, miserable. “And the old religion condemned or blessed people. The Archbishop is trying to change people’s minds. He is trying to teach people that no good person condemns another to Hell.”  
  
“Hell is where demons live,” Garona muttered, and Uther looked at her sharply. “Never mind. Draenor is a very different place from Azeroth. We’ve always had fighting, even from the earliest days of the shamans and first clans to the day we left for Azeroth. There are no places where children are kept from fighting. We all have to learn, regardless of how. Our warriors aren’t the only ones taught how to fight, only those who fight exclusively. Our hunters and farmers can fight too, but their arms are not as good, and they rarely have armour that isn’t made of hide and skins. Many orcs think the humans are soft because they can’t fight, because you have civilians.”  
  
“So, you think the Archbishop is wrong, then?” Uther asked, looking over at her. Garona shook her head.  
  
“Azeroth is a soft world, but that doesn’t make it a bad one. Your water doesn’t burn, your land doesn’t shrivel under your touch. You have the luxury of making the decision to fight or not fight. You can send your children to Abbeys to study new religions or train them for battle. Orcs don’t have that luxury, and we never had. We would die.”  
  
“Do you think humans are weak?” Uther pressed. “Because we have luxury and you orcs don’t?”  
  
_I’m not an orc,_  Garona thought, irritated, and pushed it back. Just as she’d always known orcs would never consider her one of them, she knew humans could not see the way she was different from the orcs they fought. “No. As I said, orcs are all capable of fighting, and may be stronger of arm than humans, but it doesn’t make humans weak. Orcs had no choice. They fought or they died. Humans have many choices, including the choice of peace. A life without choices isn’t much of a life at all. It’s only survival.”  
  
Uther nodded, and looked back towards the boys, watching for a time. Varian’s face, young as it was, was hard and determined. Mara watched him with satisfaction, more than Garona had ever been given by her teachers. So absorbed was Garona by this, that she missed Uther’s question.  
  
“What, sorry?” Garona muttered, looking back at the human again.  
  
“I said, do you think we have a choice now?” Uther indicated the boys. “Do you think they have any choice but to learn to fight, because the orcs have come? Do I?”  
  
Garona paused, looking from each face. “I’m not sure.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
“I don’t think anyone quite understands how much of a luxury not needing to fight to survive is,” Thrall commented. Garona looked at him sharply. “I hadn’t had a name for it, but that’s a future I want for my people. The choice not to fight. The choice to spend time in a shaman circle meditating on the elements instead of worrying when the next battle will come.”  
  
“Do you truly think that day will come?” Garona asked. “You’re naive.”  
  
“No more so than Uther was, ancestors guard his soul, for all he was an enemy of my people,” Thrall said softly. “Or you, for that matter. You believed there would be an end to it.”  
  
“It was my fault that there wasn’t,” Garona whispered, and bowed her head. Thrall curled his fingers back, rather than touch her where she might not wish it.  
  
“Tell me.”


	12. Twelve

Garona had watched from the top of one of the watchtowers as Anduin Lothar and Khadgar depart in the company of a half-dozen soldiers and knights. Khadgar had waved until he could no longer see her, and Garona had seen the moment he turned around and the tiny figure had seemed to sigh.  
  
 _I should be with him,_  Garona thought for the fifth time in three days. Khadgar was likely only at the river border between Elwynn Forest and the Duskwood, and then it would be another two days of travel to get to the Pass, then another to get to Karazhan.  _Unless he teleports, as he did for us, but can he teleport that many? Should he?_  
  
Garona peered at her own writing, which had progressed as slowly as the meanest boar trying to avoid hauling packs, and sighed. The latest tale she spun was about the warlocks and their infiltration of orc society. It was an important piece, perhaps the most informative of the tales she would ever tell, and yet she lagged.  
  
 _They need to know,_  she insisted to her fingers, when they cramped from holding the pen too tightly, or when her hair seemed to catch on everything as she moved. She sighed as she washed the pen and set it aside, leaning back. She knew why she was distracted: the messengers.  
  
A warning bell sounded, a low tone indicating ‘the enemy’ was moving. It seemed laughable to Garona. They were the enemy because they had green skin and approached Stormwind armed, but they had no intention of fighting. They were messengers, slender and swift, capable of running without rest for hours. They had been arriving -- and often not leaving -- once a week from the time she had arrived in Stormwind, and then over time their frequency had increased. From once a week to three. Then once a day. Today, they’d been arriving once an hour, leaving everyone on edge.  
  
 _I’ll be needed for the translation,_  Garona thought and stood. She departed the room and hurried down the hallways, out of the keep and to the walls overlooking the gates.  
  
Stormwind’s defenses, inside and out, were formidable: nestled between mountains, the city had expanded since its foundation to fill the valley left between the rocky peaks of the Redridge Mountain range and Southern Sea. The harbour to the west was a gateway to a greater world, while mountains to the north, east, and south were the confining, yet protective claws that drew close. A passage had been cut long ago in the mountains, or perhaps it had always been there, simply needing to be filled. There was a great wall that spanned from mountain tip to mountain tip, punctuated with a dozen watch towers. The wall itself was thick, but hollowed out on the city’s side. There were arrow slits for archers and their guardians, angled so that they could avoid blind spots, and further down, there were keyhole shaped openings, meant not for archers, but for mages, also with their protectors.  
  
Those above the walls were not idle either, as they kept the mechanisms for their cauldrons well oiled and prepared to drop boiling oil on the heads of those who came close to the walls. Twin ironwrought gates guarded the only entrance to the Keep, capable of trapping invaders in a box of death. Attackers from the front, the only realistic target, were channeled through a bridge that, from Garona’s understanding, could be collapsed at any moment.  
  
 _The orcs caught them by surprise in the swamp, and overwhelmed them in the villages, but human strongholds are not smoking mountains full of idiots that battle each other as much as they do their enemies. The humans are stronger than the Horde._  
  
The lookouts on the tops of the wall barely started as she ran past them, their first glances at her green skin and dark hair, silky and tightly bound instead of coarse and loose, and the second at her blue and gold tabard and white shirt, and pointed her towards the primary lookout.  
  
Garona made her way to the man and nodded to him. He nodded back and gestured downward. An orc was making her way to the walls. Below the lookouts, arrows were already pointing towards the orc, tracking her every move.  
  
“Hold steady, lads,” the lookout said. “They’s sending the runty ones, eh?”  
  
Garona frowned and looked closer. The orcs  _was_  small, hunter’s muscles only just beginning to develop. Garona blinked as realization hit her, what it meant. “They’re sending children to the walls.”  
  
“Children?” the lookout asked, and brought a hand up to scratch at the stubble on his wide, square jaw. “I’d been thinkin’ they was sendin’ ‘em younger ‘n younger.”  
  
“He’s running out of messengers, or…” Garona let the thought hang as she completed it in her mind.  _Or he’s doing it on purpose._  
  
“Orders?” came the message from below, through a speaker pipe. “She’s a gonna hit the walls soon.”  
  
“Let me go down,” Garona said, as the lookout hesitated. “She’s no warrior, just a child.”  
  
“Let th’orc go down, no shootin’ blue,” the lookout ordered finally, and Garona avoided making a face, instead waving to the orc girl down below. The girl paused where she stood, waving back. Garona imagined she was relieved not to be shot.  
  
There were stairs inside each lookout’s outpost that brought defenders down to street level swiftly, and Garona took them rapidly, surprising the defenders below. They eased the gates open enough to let her pass through, and Garona hurried out to meet the girl.  
  
“What are you doing?” she demanded in Orcish. “Who sent you?”  
  
“The Warchief,” the girl replied, licking her lips nervously.  
  
 _Or hungrily,_  Garona observed. The girl was thin, the dark blue and black tunic of the Stormreavers fitting loosely over her grey-green frame. She regretted that she had no food in her pockets to give her. “You have a message, give it here.”  
  
The girl nodded, and passed her a rolled up bit of skin. Garona opened it, glancing over the dark-painted runes on pale hide.  
  
 _Garona, I wish to speak to you in person. Come to me. - Gul’dan._  
  
Garona’s expression darkened. “You’ve delivered your message, go,” she ordered and the girl fled.  _It’s the same message, every time,_  she thought bitterly as she headed back to the gate, waiting for the humans to admit her once more. It took only moments for them to do so, and for all it sounded like a cage closing, Garona thought the sound of a metal gate crashing down was comforting.  
  
~ * ~  
  
“It’s the same message?” Llane asked. Today, Adalia sat at his side, her fingers creating delicate knotwork as she listened. Garona had learned, over time, that Adalia’s knotwork doubled as note taking, if necessary, and found the idea fascinating.  
  
Garona nodded once. “The messenger lived this time, she was… very young.”  
  
“Young?” Adalia asked, curious. “How young?”  
  
“Eight or nine summers, Your Majesty,” Garona said, bowing to her. “And underfed.”  
  
Llane and Adalia exchanged long looks, with the Queen finally saying, “That’s impressive emotional manipulation. We can’t kill children, even orc children. That steps out of the usual conduct of soldiers and straight into murder.”  
  
“Your Majesty, Gul’dan doesn’t share your moral compunctions,” Garona said. “He doesn’t care if they die. All that happens is there are fewer and fewer orcs to survive to adulthood to become warriors and hunters.”  
  
“Advantageous for him,” Llane noted. “We care, he doesn’t, so he gets his way twice. Either he manipulates us into monstrosities or he learns our weakness. Could he use them to damage the walls? Give them explosives?”  
  
Garona shuddered at the very thought, and Adalia held a hand out to her. Garona took it and she squeezed comfortingly. “The only reason he hasn’t done that is because he hasn’t thought of it yet,” Garona replied bleakly. “Orcs don’t use much in the way of explosives. They hadn’t mastered catapults, that’s why they had to steal them.”  
  
“At great cost to both sides,” Llane muttered. “But you say the message is exactly the same?”  
  
“Yes,” Garona said, frustrated. “No demands other than this, no curses. Just this same request.”  
  
“The repetition is the thing,” Adalia pointed out. “It’s like nobles. They ask you politely for something and they wait. If you ignore them, they’ll ask again and then again, until it’s not polite any more. And not particularly noble.”  
  
“I thought you were going to say children,” Garona confessed. Adalia chuckled.  
  
“No, no. The children here are far better behaved.”  
  
“They are,” Garona agreed. “He’ll keep sending more children, one an hour. I can’t… I can’t guarantee that if the child lives after delivering the message that they won’t then die when they return without me.”  
  
Llane and Adalia exchanged another look. “He would murder children for the crime of delivering a message with no reply?”  
  
Garona’s expression was bleak. “He’s murdered people for less.”  
  
“This situation will escalate,” Adalia murmured, as much to herself as to Llane. “People will wonder what’s going on. The bells create tension as it is, but we can’t stop using them. They convey valuable information.”  
  
“I suspect the only way to stop the bells is to give Gul’dan what he wants,” Llane replied evenly, and fixed his gaze on Garona. “Or who.”  
  
“Then the only thing we can do is let me go to him,” Garona said slowly. “He wants to see me, for some reason, and that reason is enough to throw away countless lives on the walls.”  
  
“It’s not safe,” Llane said flatly. “You’ve made it clear from your reports how dangerous Gul’dan is and that all he wants is ruin and misery.”  
  
“And yet… is that not what he brings regardless?” Adalia asked. “Garona, what do you think?”  
  
“He hasn’t harmed me since I completed my training,” Garona said, though a thought gave her pause.  _He hasn’t been able to do so… and I’m not certain as to why._. “He is dangerous, but now to others instead of to me. Those children… I was that young, once. Young and afraid. The least I can do is look out for those who come after me.”  
  
“I don’t like it,” Llane muttered. “Making concessions to tyrants.”  
  
“We concede to tyrants every moment we keep troops on the walls and the gates barred, my love,” Adalia pointed out. “We already live in fear.”  
  
“Her Majesty isn’t wrong,” Garona said. “I don’t want to go-- I hoped to avoid it entirely-- but I must now.”  
  
“Very well,” Llane said, nodding. “But I want you to come to me immediately once you return. I want to hear what he has to say.”  
  
Garona bowed deeply to both humans. “Of course.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
The orcs were restless and impatient. Frustration rippled through the warriors as they squabbled and drank, eager to wet their blades with human blood. Garona listened to the whispers of the warriors as she moved through shadows, unseen by anyone. The orcs had not seen anyone depart from Stormwind, meaning that Khadgar had slipped away unnoticed. She couldn’t help but shake her head at the sheer idiocy of it.  
  
 _No wonder you’ve needed so much help,_  Garona thought.  _You’re all but blind to anything that you can’t stab._  
  
Gu’ldan’s tent was offset from the rest of the camp. As both a chieftain and a warlock, his residence was doubly elaborate: huge and black, it was adorned with runes painted in blood. Garona let her gaze slide over them, avoiding being caught in their trap, even as she was forced out of the shadows.  
  
 _He’s never liked it that he can’t find me as easily as he used to, so he uses such traps to do the work for him._  She grimaced.  _And when that failed, he sent children to fetch me back._  
  
From her cursory examination of the children camped with their parents, the girl had not survived the report of her failure. Garona’s stomach clenched tight.  _The last one, Gul’dan. The very last one._  Garona slipped inside the tent, and waited.  
  
“Ah, there you are,” Gul'dan said, not bothering to turn around. He had taken off his robes, and was wearing only loose trousers. Garona's gaze bored a hole in his back, as though it were a dagger she could push through his ribs into his heart. She let her mind replay the thoughts several times, the gushing black blood, the sound he'd make as he choked on fluids until he breathed his last. “I've been expecting you for some time.”  
  
“The murders will stop,” Garona said, and her hands clenched, though they did not go to the dagger strapped under her sleeve. Human clothing was less suited to hidden weapons, and it was harder to draw quickly, though she would dig it out if forced. “I am here, say what you have to say so that I can leave.”  
  
“Leave to return to the bosom of the humans, isn't that right?” Gul'dan asked, and his lack of reaction to her tone and disrespect surprised her. A handful of years or a decade ago, his response would not have been a question, it would have been a blow. “You've adopted their clothing.”  
  
“It reminds them that I am not part of the Horde's forces,” Garona replied. “That I'm not one of  _you_.”  
  
“And yet, you are not one of them either, are you?” Gul'dan asked.  
  
The question struck Garona like a fist. How many times -- even just today -- had people simply assumed she was an orc because of the colour of her skin and hair? How many understood when she told them what halforcen meant, what it said about her background?  
  
Gul’dan smiled as he watched her reaction. “You haven’t forgotten.”  
  
“Forgotten  _what_ , exactly?” Garona demanded. “That I will never be an orc? Never be accepted? At least I know that I will never be human. I had no hopes of that.”  
  
“But you hoped to be an orc, is that it?” Gul’dan asked. “You hoped to strip yourself of your mother’s blood, to be recognized by the clans? Is that what you want?”  
  
“I--” Garona forced herself to think, to remember. “I don’t need that any more,” she insisted. “I don’t need to be accepted by the orcs to be a whole person. I am  _me_ , my mother’s daughter _and_  my father’s!” She saw Gul’dan twitch, just for a moment, then his expression cleared. There were markings painted on his face, dark against green skin, wrinkles and scars.  _He’s old,_ she realized briefly.  _Was he always this old?_  
  
Gul’dan smiled at her. “You want a father, then. That’s why you’ve tried to find one… the traitor and the human king.”  
  
Garona shuddered as both smile and words struck her. “Medivh was a good teacher, a better teacher than you.”  
  
“You learned much from him,” Gul’dan agreed, pacing briefly, and his gaze fell to her necklace, gleaming in the dim light of the tent. “Like how quickly he turned on you.”  
  
“It was the demon’s fault,” Garona whispered. “He would never--”  
  
“Was it a demon that taught you, then?” Gul’dan demanded. “That brought you before me to speak across great distances? That planted the idea in your head that all it took was clothing to fit in?”  
  
Three years of Winterveil gifts, mostly of clothing, fit to be worn by her, only by her, but made in the human way. “That’s not--”  
  
“And the humans of Stormwind… they give you their colours to overshadow your own. You hope,” Gul’dan pressed. “How easily will they ignore those colours to kill, if your skin is the wrong shade?”  
  
“They aren’t murderers!” Garona cried. “Not like  _you_ , you who sends children to the walls to  _die_!”  
  
“If you assume the  _humans_  will kill messengers, no matter how young, so long as their purpose is complete, that speaks more of the humans than it does of me,” Gul’dan replied, his eyes gleaming. “Did you not see the child? She is simply resting.”  
  
“They… they don’t…”  
  
“You are a messenger, Garona. A spy, an assassin. When Medivh was done with you, he tried to kill you. Do you think these humans won’t do the same? That they won’t open their great iron gates to pour their armies over our camps, sparing no one? Do you think that girl will live through a war?”  
  
Garona shuddered, but she could remember every look she’d been given, every suggestion made by a noble.  _If you ignore them, they’ll ask again and again…_  “It’s your fault,” she whispered, as Gul’dan approached her. “You’re the reason why the humans hate us at all.”  
  
“I’m the reason the orcs live better than they have in decades,” Gul’dan reminded her. “No one would have been able to open that Portal without me.”  
  
“You ruined the land,” Garona said, her voice still hushed. “You bargained with demons. Everything is your fault.”  
  
“The land was poor long before I was born,” Gul’dan said gently, though the words cut into her mind like daggers. “I did not start the wars with the draenei and the ogres. I didn’t fill the oceans with monsters or the skies with predators. All I have done, I have done for my people.”  
  
“For yourself,” Garona insisted. “Llane cares for his people. He loves them.”  
  
“He would send them to die to protect him,” Gul’dan said. “He would send you. He will kill the messenger. He will kill all the messengers. All the little children who came here, hoping for something better. Hoping for freedom.”  
  
“The demons…”  
  
“The humans have known demons longer than the orcs have. Surely, that was in the books you read,” Gul’dan pressed. “These mages… they know demons very well. This world belongs to the demons, and also to us. We will share it, we will keep it, once the demons get what they want.”  
  
“And if they don’t get it?” Garona asked. “What will they do?”  
  
“The humans will destroy us, then the demons will destroy them. All children will die. All hope, all futures.”  
  
Garona’s mind raced, thoughts intermingling until they were tangled together, one idea hopping to another, until there was no beginning or end. “What can we do?”  
  
“We need to win out over the humans,” Gul’dan said. Garona looked away. He reached out, putting his fingers under her chin, forcing her gaze back to him. “It’s the only way we can save our people.”  
  
“They… they love Llane,” Garona whispered. “Everything falls on his shoulders. The queen is wise, his champions are strong, but all ties to him, the keystone in a bridge.”  
  
“Then we must remove the keystone,” Gul’dan murmured, watching her expression with satisfaction as it fell. “You must kill Llane.”  
  
“He’s my friend,” Garona said. “I can’t betray him.”  
  
“But he will betray you,” Gul’dan warned. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? The moment he does not need you, you will die, and then we all will. Stormwind  _must_  fall, and the human king with it.”  
  
“He trusts me,” Garona said miserably. “He said so.”  
  
“Then it will be easy for you to do your work,” Gul’dan said. “You will also need to weaken the defenses. I’m sure they’ve taught you much to reassure you of how primitive your people are.”  
  
“My people?” Garona asked him, old anger overtaking new fears. “You have always told me I am other. My mother--”  
  
“Your mother would have taken you and fled Draenor, her and her cowardly people… they cared nothing for the orcs. You know that is true,” Gul’dan said, shaking his head. “I was cruel to you, daughter, to make you stronger for what was to come. You are all that you are because of me.”  
  
 _Daughter,_  Garona’s mind echoed. “You would tell others this?”  
  
“I will tell two worlds that you are my daughter and that you are Stormreaver,” Gul’dan assured her. “But not while you wear human trappings.”  
  
“I must… wear this to get close to Llane,” Garona said numbly. “And to the defenses.”  
  
“Of course, but not, I think… this.” Gul’dan’s hand dropped to the pendant she wore. Khadgar’s gift, the two moons of Azeroth. He gave a hard tug, and the chain broke with a snap, and he dropped it on the floor. “It will catch the light while you hide in the shadows.”  
  
“I dwell in darkness,” Garona murmured, and Gul’dan nodded, releasing her.  
  
“When this is over and we press north, we will find more enemies to fight, but then…” Gul’dan turned away, though she caught the faintest hint of a smile. “We may find the Shadow Wolves, if they yet live. Their weakest have surely died off. The blind blasphemer, the weak girl mated with Durotan. What was her name?”  
  
“Draka,” Garona supplied.  _Though Draka isn’t weak._  
  
“Her name means little if she is dead, and if she’s not… she will be. Women and men alike fight for their mates. It will not be a challenge to you, I think. If you give me Llane, I will give you all you desire. A name, a clan, recognition… Durotan.”  
  
 _Perhaps… even Durotan will agree that this was for the best…_  Garona thought as she knelt, and Gul’dan placed his hand on the back of her neck. Long ago, when she’d stopped growing, he had tattooed a mark on her, his mark. As he touched it, it itched and burned.  
  
~ * ~  
  
It was nightfall by the time she returned to Stormwind’s keep. She stood on the ledge outside the window, peering into Llane’s office, where they frequently met. No Varian within, sitting at his father’s knee. No Mara, pacing as he sat, snapping out her opinions while Llane answered calmly. No Adalia, discussing reports. It would have been easy enough to slip inside, but she had made a promise. It would be the last she kept, she had promised herself.  
  
 _Return to me as soon as you’re able._  
  
She had taken a slow route back from Gul’dan’s tent, over the walls. She knew where the humans kept their explosive powder, their supplies. All of the places that could be detonated in an instant to cover her retreat. Once Llane was dead, the army would attack, and they were dependent on her to destroy the humans’ defenses.  
  
The Horde waited for her, prepared for her.  
  
She wished that she were shaking, that she were nervous, but a kind of detached calm had entered her, filling in after the burning sensation had worn off. Her mind was focused, her purpose clear. Garona slipped away from the ledge, and moved past the guard patrols easily. They only saw her when she let them, and tonight she would not. She was one with the shadows.  
  
She dwelt in darkness.  
  
Moving between shadows, she maneuvered herself into the hall, outside Llane’s office, and with no hesitation, knocked on the door, that he might hear her.  
  
“Come in,” Llane called. Garona opened the door and stepped inside, shutting it silently. After a moment, he looked over his shoulder, and surprise flashed briefly on his face before smiling. “Ah, of course. Come in, sit. I want to hear everything.”  
  
The human king was standing by one of the shelves, and moved to the window, looking down, his expression reflected in the glass. Garona moved forward, though she did not sit. His expression changed from pleasure, as he watched his people below, to surprise, though he smiled. Garona moved closer.   
  
“Gul’dan did not kill the messenger girl. I did not see her, but he claimed she slept and was resting.”  
  
“That’s a relief, I knew you were worried. What did he say?”  
  
“He said that you, personally, are the greatest threat to orc domination of Azeroth,” Garona said, keeping her voice even. “Your armies are powerful, your people are plentiful and wealthy, your mages cunning and your assassins well-placed to counter his, but it is you who are the key to holding it all together. Gul’dan has said he wants to see you eliminated, because once you fall, Azeroth will fall.” She studied his reflection closely, looking for any indication that he could understand what she meant. Instead, he only seemed pleased, and she inched closer.  
  
Llane turned, facing her with a broad smile. “I’ll admit, while having a cult of personality is ideal, I don’t shun it. After the Baewynns, and the others… even my father was more warlord than king. I am obeyed and loved rather than obeyed and feared, and that pleases me.” Garona felt something shiver through her, and she did not let it show on her skin. She let nothing show. “What do you think, Garona? Do you agree?”  
  
She had always been swift. She had always surprised people the first time they saw her fight. Telkar, Khadgar, and now Llane Wrynn: his eyes widened as she seemed to disappear from her respectful distance, the helpful subordinate gone, and reappear just in front of him, the silent, deadly assassin. Her dagger was in her hand. She stabbed upwards, the knife sliding under Llane’s ribcage and aimed straight for his heart.  
  
The human king’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened, though little sound came out.  _You would think that you would remember, by now, that I am silent as I pass, and so is all around me._  She grasped him with one hand as he tried to stagger away from her, and with the other pulled the knife out. With both hands she lowered him to the ground, and leaned in close to speak. “I agree with him,” she replied, her voice hoarser than she’d intended. “For the orcs to live, you must die.”  
  
Humans did not bleed the same murky black that orcs did. They did not bleed Garona’s steel-blue, the product of her mixed heritage. Llane’s heart’s blood, deep red, flowed from him in a torrent, soaking everything. Garona’s clothing, blue and white and gold, lost colour as the fallen king’s blood turned them dark, and the remainder created a shadowy stain on the floor.  
  
Garona reached out, closing lids on Llane’s wide, staring, betrayed look, and left red fingerprints there. She resisted the urge to wipe them off. She had work to do. She cut Llane’s shirt open easily, tugging it wide to expose his chest. She eyed his blood-smeared abdomen and considered simply cutting that hole open wider.  _I’ll butcher the heart if I do that._  
  
Instead, Garona cut a long slit from the base of Llane’s neck to the base of his ribs. Using her dagger, she cut under the skin and pulled it back, exposing his rib cage. Feeling around, she recalled that humans too had a softer, bendier kind of bone, cartilage, and her dagger sawed through it with difficulty. First one side, then the other, and she tugged his sternum free, setting it aside.  
  
There was Llane’s limp, unbeating heart and his blood-soaked lungs. Reaching in, she simply cut the organ free, and pulled it out.. Holding it in her hand, it was comparatively large, but Llane had been a taller, broader man than she. She replaced his sternum, setting it inside his chest, and then tugged the skin back over. It did not fit, and could not conceal the gap in the fallen human king’s chest.  
  
 _How will I carry--_  Garona set the heart down, and tugged her tabard off. She set the heart over the Azerothian lion, the scant fat deposits several shades lighter than the once brilliant, now tarnished gold, and wrapped it quickly. She wiped her hands and her dagger on her trousers, and stood.  
  
Garona made her way to the window and opened it, slipping out into the night air. She let it remain open, and pressed herself against the wall, deep in the shadows. She was uncertain as to how long it would take for someone to notice, but as she waited, as the night’s insects chirped their song, as guards patrolled without care, Garona heard the study’s door open.  
  
“My love, I--” Adalia, the first to find her husband’s corpse, screamed, anguished and angry and afraid all at once. Garona saw the guard snap to, hurrying towards her, and that was Garona’s signal. Around her neck, to replace the gift Khadgar had once given her, was a spell key Gul’dan had commanded her to activate.  
  
She had been correct when she told Llane the orcs hadn’t mastered blasting powder. That didn’t mean they were incapable of wide-scale destruction. One-handed, the other arm cradling Llane’s heart, she snapped the symbol in half. Around the city, fires bloomed. Soon, dozens of screams split the night air, and Garona was running, darting through the shadows.  
  
As she fled towards the gates, Garona heard a sound, not as loud as screams or bells, but rumbling, like a rockslide. It was the sound of orcs. Loosed from their stasis outside of Stormwind keep, its defenders distracted and absent, the Horde attacked.  
  
The city quickly descended into chaos. Humans fled towards Stormwind Harbour, and fell as they were cut down, quickly choking the canals with bodies. Without Anduin Lothar to lead the defenses, Mara Fordragon stepped up, bellowing orders to the passing soldiers.  
  
Without Llane, without Lothar, the knight was forced to order as many as possible to evacuate, seeing to the safety of the Queen and the Prince -- now child-King -- that they might survive the fall of Stormwind. Garona was forced to hide in the city, to watch as orc forces bowled over the humans, all of their careful order for naught.  
  
She saw neither Blackhand nor Gul’dan in the attack, and no warlocks rose to counter the human mages. Warriors crowded the courtyard of Goldenspire Academy, making up for their lack of warlocks with sheer numbers, as the circle of mages defending it shrank. It was there that Khadgar and Lothar with their escort reappeared, looking weary, and then horrified as they saw what had happened in their absence.  
  
They had little choice but to follow Mara’s orders. The child-King was passed to Lothar, and Garona could not read Mara’s lips nor hear her voice, but she could read the elder knight’s expression well enough: she was telling him to leave.  
  
 _Stormwind is lost, the orcs have won,_  Garona thought silently as she watched the scene play out. She saw Mara, blood streaked and caked in soot, kneel to put her hand on Bolvar’s shoulder. She knew not what they said, but Bolvar nodded, tears flowing freely down his young face. Mara embraced her son and shooed him off.  
  
Garona made to move, and felt a shiver down her back. She looked around, and saw Khadgar, staring off into the distance. Looking right at her. She pulled back, and began to run again.  
  
It took hours for Garona to finally be clear of the battle. By then, it was over. The humans who had escaped Stormwind’s destruction had sailed away, thanks to Lothar, Khadgar, the handful of remaining mages, and Mara Fordragon’s sacrifice. The orcs were looting all they could, finally revelling in the wealth they had been promised, even as Garona saw the spoils as a shadow of what the prosperous human city had once held.  
  
She picked her way through the abandoned army camps, making her way steadily towards Gul’dan’s tent, which still stood. As she approached it, something tingled along her spine. She could hear voices, too soft to discern, and wondered if this was where Blackhand had gone. She stepped inside.  
  
“I have done--”  
  
The figures within were not Gul’dan and his pet warlord. Garona found herself staring at the back of a Blackrock warrior’s armour, black and trimmed with gold. A huge weapon, more slab of spiked metal than proper mace, was slung on his back. She knew that armour, that mace, though she was less familiar with the way he jumped at the sound of her voice, disrupted from his search of Gul’dan’s chest of magical reagents. She had little time to take pleasure from that as realization hit.  
  
 _Doomhammer!_  Garona thought frantically as she took a step back.  _What is he--_  
  
She did not hear the blow that struck the back of her head, but she felt it briefly before her vision went black and she knew no more.


	13. Thirteen

Thrall sat in stunned silence. He had read of the assault on Stormwind, read of the betrayal from the point of view of men like Anduin Lothar and Uther the Lightbringer, but to hear it from Garona’s own lips made his stomach sink.  
  
_No wonder they hate us,_  Thrall thought.  _No wonder they hate her._  He cleared his throat to ask, “What happened next?”  
  
Garona met his gaze steadily, and Thrall flinched under her look. She had brought him this far, and she seemed to know, to understand, what he was thinking. “I was taken prisoner, chained in the dungeons of Stormwind Keep, after Doomhammer seized it as his own. Orcs don’t traditionally keep prisoners. We’d have to feed them. They are usually interrogated and then killed. Some consider it to be a luxury, to hold someone captive and deal with them at their leisure.”  
  
“...it’s not a luxury for the one in the cage,” Thrall noted, and glanced down at his hands. They shook, and he commanded them to stop, without much luck. “So you were Doomhammer’s prisoner.”  
  
“I was. I learned, in time, that Doomhammer had turned on Blackhand moments before the attack on Stormwind. That Doomhammer used my distraction to secure his status as leader of the Horde, of the Blackrock. It was a victory I bought him. That Gul’dan bought him.”  
  
Thrall hesitated. “You said… was Gul’dan controlling you, through the brand? Was that why--”  
  
“No,” Garona stated flatly. “While I am branded, as all agents of the Shadow Council are, Gul’dan’s words convinced me to betray a friend. He convinced me that it was the only way. The brand is used to track us, and if I had fled, he would have boiled my blood in my veins. It was a contingency, not direct control.”  
  
“You said he couldn’t always find you,” Thrall pointed out. “He may not have after that.”  
  
“Not something I realized then,” Garona replied. “That took time, and I learned more of what the brand did as I tracked down the Shadow Council’s agents. I believed Gul’dan to be more powerful than he was, more all-seeing. Everyone believed that, even Doomhammer.”  
  
“I see,” Thrall said, though his heart ached. He didn’t want to ask what had happened next, and Garona read it in his expression.  
  
“I will not give you the details, but I will tell you what was done. Doomhammer interrogated me. He demanded to know where Gul’dan was and what he was planning. Eventually, I told him of the demons and the Shadow Council. I learned, with time, that Gul’dan had retreated to Northshire Abbey immediately after I was sent to Stormwind. Medivh had called to him, informing him that he was under attack and needed help. Gul’dan, rather than actually aid him, dug into Medivh’s memories for a specific location, and he was in the process of doing that when Lothar killed Medivh. He fell into a coma.”  
  
“The Tomb of Sargeras, Gul’dan’s true goal,” Thrall murmured. “Where he met his end.”  
  
“Yes. There was much I couldn’t tell Doomhammer, and he didn’t believe me about much that I did tell him.” Garona looked at her hands, studying them for a time. Thrall’s heart sank further.  
  
“I’m sorry, Garona, so sorry. He never said… did he--”  
  
“Doomhammer was many things, Thrall. A brute, an idiot, and a coward, but he was not a  _rapist_. He broke both of my arms and left me in a jail cell to rot. He didn’t believe I deserved a clean death, for all the hurt I’d caused him, nor that I deserved release from my own hurts.” She flexed her fingers briefly. “He likely lived to regret that.”  
  
“He shouldn’t have been so cruel,” Thrall said. “No matter what.”  
  
“You are so naive,” Garona murmured softly, almost to herself. “When he left to seek out Gul’dan, I broke from my cell. Having two broken arms was nothing compared to the numbness I felt. I killed the guards left to watch over me and I fled.” Thrall flinched again, but said nothing. “I made my way through the shadows, letting the cold numb me further, to Karazhan. There was… nowhere left for me to go. No Stormwind, no clan, no Draenor. With Doomhammer in charge, I could no more trust my supposed allies than I could my enemies. I wasn’t even sure which was which, at that point.”  
  
“There couldn’t have been much left there either, considering what had happened,” Thrall ventured, and she nodded to him once.  
  
“Tower’s Shadow Village was empty and ruined. The shadows howled and wailed from all the dead. Karazhan’s ruin was complete. What had been left intact by the battle between Aegwynn and Medivh had been destroyed by those coming to fight Medivh. Khadgar took them in. They destroyed the secret passages. All I had to do was follow the path of destruction up.”  
  
Thrall watched Garona as her expression shifted, emotion twitching over her features like the shadows of things forgotten.  
  
“I found him in his inner sanctum. The globe he used to speak to Gul’dan was smashed. They had stabbed him in the heart and then decapitated him, though they didn’t take his head with them. Lothar was not the type of warrior to bring his king a heart or a head as proof. His spellbooks were gone, or heaps of char. Anything they couldn’t take with them was destroyed. The book we’d once given Medivh as a gift… gone.”  
  
“He was free, I think,” Thrall said as she fell silent. “You’d said he was doomed from the beginning, since before his birth… but as a ghost, there was no trace of the demon in him. He had broken free in death.”  
  
“I know,” Garona said quietly. “I wonder if that’s what Khadgar finally realized. I wonder if anyone else could have done it. Killed him and freed his spirit. Perhaps… that’s what we were for. Those who grew close to him. To finally stop him when no one else could. I wish I had been there. Stormwind would never have fallen.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Thrall began, and Garona began to speak again, as though he had not.  
  
“The least I could do for him was to put him to rest,” Garona continued. “I put him in one of the stasis chambers, where he’d keep samples, until I healed. I splinted my arms and scrounged food while they healed. Then, when I had the strength for it, I brought his body down to the ground floor, and found a place under one of the ruined trees. I buried him there, and chipped his name into the stone. I buried my daggers, the ones that had butchered Llane, with him. I was a fool, Thrall, and it hit me then, all of it. Gul’dan had never intended for any kind of bright future for the orcs. He sought only to use them. To use Medivh. To use me. Everything was ash and dust.”  
  
Garona fell silent, her head bowed. Thrall let the words soak into him, mingling with every story Orgrim and Grom had told him, every Frostwolf tale. It only took him a moment to decide what to do. “Garona, may I touch you?”  
  
Garona looked up at him sharply, and nodded once. Carefully, Thrall leaned in and embraced her, gathering the smaller woman. She felt fragile and strong all at once as she leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder. He murmured to her softly, rubbing her back. “We will make it right,” he promised. “We can’t change the past, but the orcs can still have that bright future you believed in.”  
  
“You’re too good,” Garona complained, but softly. “Too naive. I stabbed the last person who trusted me in the back, and you’re hugging me.”  
  
“Actually, you stabbed Llane in the front,” Thrall pointed out, and it startled a weak laugh from Garona.  
  
“I’m not sure where you picked up a morbid sense of humour from,” Garona muttered, wiping at her eyes. “Do you think you’re funny?”  
  
“I believe I’m a little bit funny,” Thrall said, rocking her. For a time, they sat in silence, Warchief and Assassin, sharing comfort. When Garona pushed against him, his arms opened and she sat up. Her eyes were dry, though they hinted at blue-grey, making them look larger than usual.  
  
“After the burial, I began to plan,” Garona said, and coughed to clear her throat. “I hadn’t thought about what I’d do before then. I knew I had to make up for what I’d done. I’d allowed Gul’dan to convince me that he cared for me in any way, that he had the best interests of the orcs at heart. A part of me had… genuinely hoped that he could love me, as a father should love a daughter, that all he’d done for me was for a greater end, and because of that, many, many people died.”  
  
“I understand,” Thrall said. “Blackmoore… I’ve spoken of him before. He was cruel and terrible, sometimes carelessly so, sometimes deliberately. The name he gave me, the purpose he trained me for… and Tari. My sister deserved better. She deserved the world and not a cage. Not death. There was a time I believed that if I just did the right things, appeased him, he would love me. He would be proud of me. We spoke of it some weeks ago… table scraps. I wanted table scraps.”  
  
“Neither of them were worthy of love, only of hate,” Garona said. “I wish I could have found you in time to spare you from that.”  
  
Thrall stilled, staring at her. “What do you mean?”  
  
~ * ~   
  
Garona ran. There were plenty of shadows to hide in, cast by so many trees that it obscured much of her ability to see, but she was not skimming through darkness, not this time. She needed to see and be seen. Her footfalls were near silent, the crunch of leaves going unheard, and the snapping of twigs so soft as to be thought far away. In better circumstances, she would leave no trace.  
  
At the moment, she didn’t care. She had to find them, and fast, before it was too late.  
  
It had taken time to recover from Doomhammer’s torture. Medivh’s burial had taken much from her, and the revelation of what she’d done had fallen on her shoulders like lead. By the time she had left Karazhan, months had passed.  
  
Rather than pressing his advantage, Doomhammer had waited three months before pursuing the humans north. This had given Lothar time to warn King Terenas Menethil of Lordaeron of the orcish threat. Lothar had impressed upon him that the orcs were not a minor concern, or something to be observed by the diplomat-king, but instead that there needed to be a call to action of the other human and non-human nations. Orc aggression had pushed the six remaining human nations, the elven nation of Quel’thalas, two of the three dwarven kingdoms, and the gnomish stronghold to unite to face the combined threat of orcs, ogres, trolls, and goblins.  
  
_Khadgar once told me that it would take the greatest threat in the world for them to all agree on something, and he wasn’t wrong,_  Garona thought, shame flushing through her, though she didn’t let it break her stride.  
  
Once the Horde had marched north, she had done all she could to delay them, killing key figures, sabotaging war efforts, and gloated as the humans beat the orcs back. She had not reckoned with Lord Perenolde, the leader of Alterac, betraying his people to the orcs, and her efforts had come to little as the orcs had pushed forward to Lordaeron, the heart of the Alliance.  
  
Then she’d caught wind of a rumour that had sent her into Alterac proper, propelled as though she could outrun destiny.  
  
_Gul’dan didn’t know where they were until Durotan and Draka came out of hiding,_  Garona thought.  _He could never infiltrate the Shadow Wolves, never find a gap in their armour to exploit. Now they’ve come to whisper to Doomhammer, and Gul’dan has signed their death warrants._  
  
The siege would be starting soon, or perhaps even now. Sieges lasted a long time, and the orcs, taught by the goblins, had taken to them quickly. They had mastered powder and weapons easily, and Garona had even heard that they commanded the dragons of Azeroth, thanks to the Dragonmaw.  
  
That didn’t matter to her right at this moment. She had made her decision.  _I must find them, I--_  
  
She broke out into a clearing, and at a glance, she realized she was far too late. Four orcs lay sprawled in the clearing. Two, a man and a woman, wore leather trimmed with white fur, and adorned with bright blue cloth, beads, and a small number of charms. Black blood obscured much of the fine work as they were cut in a dozen places. They lay barely out of reach of each other's arms, though the man seemed to be reaching for a basket that lay beside him, cut open and thrown aside.  
  
There were wolves, two of them, white and huge. She had heard of Alteraci frostwolves, though they lived only in the coldest places, and had never before been seen in the lowlands. Their jaws were soaked in black blood, and their own blood, as red as a human’s, soaked their white fur and dried, stiffening it in clumps like daggers.  
  
From the way the violence spattered around them, in the dirt and over the brush and trees, the orcs had fallen first, and the wolves, berserk with rage and anger, had followed.  
  
The assassins were arrayed around them: throats torn out by wolves, chests slashed open with axes and stabbed by spears. Garona moved to them, checking their clothing. They wore the red and black of the Blackrock clan, and she felt anger surge through her.  
  
_Doomhammer, you fool, you_  idiot!, she growled silently as she turned one of the assassins onto his stomach.  _Did you not think Gul’dan would watch you every waking moment, looking for weakness?_  
  
She yanked the assassin’s head up, tugging at his long, shaggy, coarse hair. The symbol of the Shadow Council, tattooed above his hairline, glared back at her. She dropped the assassin as her face twisted into a snarl. With each body she checked, her movements grew jerkier and more violent. Each one bore the same mark.  
  
Finally, as though delaying could somehow change their fate, Garona moved to Durotan and Draka. The chieftain of the Shadow Wolves had aged since she had last seen him. Though he was no older than Doomhammer, he had deep-set lines around his mouth and eyes, as though he’d spent much of the past eight years since he’d been exiled worrying.  
  
Slowly, she knelt at his side, her fingers skimming over those lines, before moving to close his staring brown eyes.  _Durotan... I’m sorry. You deserved better than this. You both did._ Turning slightly, she looked over Draka. She had new scars, and her expression, even in death, was defiant.  _You were stronger than Gul’dan ever understood. No one was more brave, more deserving of a chieftain mate than you. I was too late. Did you ever--_  
  
Garona looked over at the basket as realization struck her. This was no container for food or supplies. They had packs enough for that. Though it had been torn open and the blanket it must have held was gone, the carefully woven container could only have had one purpose.  _Even their child… no. Gul’dan’s destroyed their legacy. Durotan’s legacy. The Frostwolves were the only clan to ever stand against him, to defy him until the very end. They didn’t even have the decency to leave the child behind with their parents._  
  
Garona tried to tilt the basket upright, but it rolled over. Tears dripped from her cheeks as she wept silently, surrounded by the deaths of those she had hoped to save. A bird’s call, loud and close, shook her from her silent mourning, and she wiped at her eyes. She caught a flash of the pendant charm of two moons on her bracer. Before she had escaped Doomhammer’s clutches entirely, she had stolen it from Gul’dan’s seized belongings, and left a knife in its place. She hoped it kept Doomhammer awake at night. She hoped he was dead, broken by the humans.  
  
Hate fizzled in her veins, and she pushed herself up. It took time to find enough wood to build a pyre for four, and more time to drag two orc and two wolf corpses onto the wood. The fire took more time still to burn, and Garona watched as they returned to flame and ash, as orcs had always done, freeing their spirits from their bodies.  _I wonder if they will go to Oshu’gun, or if they will linger. If they will go to the human hell as enemies or to human heaven as fallen heroes. I wonder if they will linger in the Twisting Nether, adding their voices to the cries and screams._  She blinked rapidly. She moved to one of the trees, and began to carve.  
  
_Durotan.  
Draka  
Unnamed Child._  
  
The assassins, she left to the vultures. They deserved nothing less than to be torn apart, as she was, as she felt her heart, already brittle from loss and anger and hate, shatter into dust.  
  
~ * ~  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t think to seek you out,” Garona said. “I believed the trail that went through the clearing was from orcs. It was obscured and old. When the rumours spoke of an orc in the clutches of Aedelas Blackmoore, it could have been  _any_  orc. I didn’t make the connection.”  
  
Thrall was quiet for a moment, worrying the Frostwolf carving between his fingers, the one he had found in Orgrim’s collection of keepsakes, preserved even from his capture. Emotion surged through him -- gratitude that Garona had tended to his parents, anger at their deaths, sadness, loss -- and finally he spoke. “I won’t say I’m happy that I grew up away from my family, but I’m glad I was not torn apart by animals in infancy. I’m not happy that Blackmoore granted me an education only to use me for his traitorous schemes, but I’m glad that I met Tari and Sergeant. I’m not happy that I was taught to be a gladiator so that Blackmoore could bet on me, but I’m glad that I could fight to save my people.”  
  
“Life is like that,” Garona pointed out. “You don’t have to be grateful for the painful things that happened to you. They aren’t good for you, they hurt. Life is about surviving the pain, and learning what causes it so that you can avoid it in the future.”  
  
“There is no virtue in suffering,” Thrall murmured, and Garona nodded her agreement.  
  
“If I could have lived a happy life without pain or death I would have chosen to do so, but as things are, I learned to survive in spite of that pain, not because of it.”  
  
Thrall nodded his own agreement, and considered. “What did you do after that, while I was growing up in Durnholde?”  
  
“Spying, mostly. The Horde didn’t need my help to fail. They failed at Lordaeron, though it was a near thing. Gul’dan and Cho’gall never provided Doomhammer’s armies with support, and the mages overwhelmed them. They lost their dragon support too, though Doomhammer had believed they wouldn’t need it. They retreated from Lordaeron, down the continent, harried by the dwarves and gnomes.”  
  
“You must have been happy about that,” Thrall observed, watching her features. She sighed.  
  
“In some ways, I was pleased to see Doomhammer humbled, especially because his downfall came from the same source as my own, but at the same time, the one thing Gul’dan was correct about was that the humans would have never let the orcs stay. The Alliance was pushing them back towards Draenor and the Dark Portal. The damage had spread to fill much of the southern swamp, and the land was dying.”  
  
“Orgrim spoke of the retreat. He said that he had tried to return to Blackrock Mountain, but Blackhand’s sons refused to allow him entry. They watched as the Alliance crashed into the Horde.”  
  
“That much was true,” Garona said. “Rend and Maim wanted nothing more than to see the Backstabber fall, even if it meant the Horde would fall with him. Half of the Horde’s races were not even of Draenor.”  
  
“That’s… petty and sad,” Thrall noted, and Garona snorted, a faint gust of wind, easily lost.  
  
“Those are excellent words to describe the twins. There was a last, pitched battle at the foot of Blackrock Mountain. Doomhammer and Lothar fought. He’d believed that, should Lothar fall, the Alliance forces would weaken as they had when I’d killed Llane.”  
  
“The history books claimed that Lord Lothar was ambushed, while Orgrim always said it had been a fair fight,” Thrall observed. “But you’d know the truth of it.”  
  
“It was as fair as Doomhammer ever is,” Garona replied. “No ambush, but they both had guards. Doomhammer killed Lothar, and demanded the humans retreat. General Turalyon, one of the paladins trained by Uther, took up Lothar’s shield and fought back.”  
  
“Orgrim said he was astonished at their power,” Thrall said. “That if he had to have his behind kicked through his spine, that Turalyon was worthy.”  
  
“The Silver Hand was well-trained and fought expertly, throwing back much of the fel magic the warlocks threw against them,” Garona noted. “Uther had finally made up his mind about choosing to fight.”  
  
“Though the paladins were not perfect, nor untouchable,” Thrall growled. “They could fall.”  
  
“All can fall, and the higher up they are, the longer and more painful the drop,” Garona reminded him. “Doomhammer, as you know, was captured and dragged north in chains, brought to Terenas and the prisons in Lordaeron.”  
  
“He only rarely spoke of it, though he told me he knew what it was like to be kept in a cage for the entertainment of humans.” Thrall frowned, and for a bare moment, he felt Garona’s touch ghost over the back of his hand; comfort, in her way. He offered her a smile, and she returned one.  
  
“Did he ever tell you why they kept him for so long?” Thrall shook his head. “It was part of a scheme of Terenas’, one few, if any, still know about.”  
  
“What scheme?” Thrall asked, looking startled.  
  
“Terenas knew that capturing every orc would be a trial. Keeping them all, prosecuting them all, would be ruinous.” Thrall opened his mouth to object, and Garona raised a hand. “I know how that looks from this side of history, but Terenas didn’t intend to keep the orcs in prison camps indefinitely. He wanted Doomhammer to lead the orcs away, back to Draenor or elsewhere.”  
  
“But the Portal was closed,” Thrall said. “They couldn’t have known then that it would open in a few years.”  
  
“No, they couldn’t have, but Terenas was determined.”  
  
“I had no idea.... and Orgrim said nothing to me. It’s not in any of the books,” Thrall said. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Very sure, because you do know of its effects, even if you didn’t know why,” Garona replied. “The Alliance nearly collapsed under the weight of Terenas’ risky idea. It did fracture. Gilneas and Stromgarde left the Alliance due to Terenas’ ‘merciful’ treatment of the orcs. Kul Tiras nearly left, but returned after Doomhammer’s execution order was made public. The elves of Quel’thalas seriously considered returning to isolation, simply barring the Gate of Three Moons and never opening them again.”  
  
“It seems the Blackhand twins aren’t the only ones capable of pettiness,” Thrall growled. “Instead of letting our people go elsewhere, they were kept in cages, made to starve and suffer and abused due to Terenas’ so-called mercy.”  
  
“The other choice was genocide,” Garona noted quietly, and Thrall jerked back. “Greymane and Trollbane wanted to see the orcs killed until the camps ran black with orc blood. The orcs would have done it, killed the humans instead of keeping them as prisoners.  _They_  did not have prison camps.” Thrall felt sick from the knowledge, and Garona saw it in his eyes. She continued. “Doomhammer never spoke of it because Terenas’ great scheme failed, and he was nearly executed by the crown.”  
  
“But why?” Thrall asked, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Why did Terenas change his mind?” When Garona remained silent, he pressed on. “You know, I’m certain you know. You haven’t told me all of this just to say nothing.”  
  
Garona watched his expression and nodded once. “I will tell you.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
The war between orcs and humans, between Horde and Alliance, was over. Doomhammer’s capture had signalled its end. Garona had moved between the camps when they had been temporary structures close to the Dark Portal, overseen by Danath Trollbane, and she had avoided Alleria Windrunner’s patrols as they had hunted the Bleeding Hollow. She had seen Nethergarde Keep, bright with new stone and wood, adorned by the banners of Dalaran and the Kirin Tor. She had avoided Stormwind when Varian Wrynn, young but no longer a child, had returned under guard with Bolvar Fordragon and Turalyon as his escort, to rebuild what had been destroyed.  
  
Then the Dark Portal had opened again, and she’d raced north from the Swamp of Sorrows, following the carnage. Grommash Hellscream, leader of the Warsong clan, older and harder and leaner than she’d seen him last, had led his forces north, smashing through that which was fragile and newly built.  
  
_And then… they stopped,_  Garona thought.  _When all the orcs who could escape to Draenor had gone, the Alliance’s forces followed. Then the Portal closed and they were trapped to die._  
  
Khadgar had lived through Karazhan and Stormwind and Dalaran and Lordaeron, only to fall on Draenor.  _Damn Ner’zhul. Damn the demons._  
  
When the Portal had closed that final, fateful time, the orcs had ceased to fight. Instead of proud, brutish, fierce warriors, they were as tired, beaten children. They were exhausted. It had taken little for the humans to round them up. If any hint of defiance had remained, it was the announcement that Orgrim Doomhammer was to be executed that destroyed it, as surely as Llane Wrynn’s death had destroyed the defiance of the Azerothians.  
  
_Good, he deserves it,_  Garona thought, even as she slipped through the shadows of Whitestone Castle. The thought, as well-deserved as it was, sat poorly with her. It was robbed of its venom by the sight of the orcs, herded into camps, watched over by humans who prodded with staves and spears and swords if they felt like the orcs moved too slowly. There were no trolls in the camps, no ogres, no goblins.  
  
_No one leads the orcs now,_  she admitted.  _Gul’dan is dead, and Cho’gall with him. His abominations, the warlock-knights, fled to Draenor and are likely dead too. The chieftains fled first, to Draenor, only to die there. There are no clans any more, no leaders._  She grimaced as she watched the silver-and-white liveried servants hurry from one place to another, and she moved in further. Much of the castle was devoted to politics, to the bureaucracies that kept a vast, intricate kingdom, extended by alliances made during war, functioning.  _The one time the orcs need their Warchief, he’s going to do them the unfortunate turn of dying._  
  
Word had spread far and wide of Doomhammer’s imminent demise. She wanted to see it with her own eyes, but everything she’d observed on her journey to the event had filled her with unease, rather than triumph.  _They need someone to wake them up, or they will die,_  she thought angrily.  _I care nothing for the fool warriors, but the children, the hunters and farmers… they are all trapped together. Humans only see the green skin and the blood on their hands._  
  
Her fingers clenched briefly, but she eased forward, skimming through the shadows easily.  _If I knew more…_  
  
With a silent growl, she continued her journey deeper into the castle. If she had been intent on assassination, rather than information, she would have had her pick of targets: Terenas was in his office, speaking to Uther, called Lightbringer, about supplies for the camps.  
  
Gone was the young man that Garona had discussed peace with. Instead, at twenty-five, Uther’s temples were greying from the stress of leading the Silver Hand, and instead of a skinny child, unable to lift a sword, he was broad-shouldered and well-muscled, and was beginning to grow a beard and mustache.  
  
_Humans have ridiculous facial hair,_  Garona decided. Terenas, the human king, did not seem like much of a warrior. His hair was shoulder length and pale blond, generously mixed in with white. His eyes were a watery blue, and he kept a trim beard and mustache, much like Uther was attempting to cultivate. Terenas was not a warrior: Garona could see no muscles under his white silk robes, and they were trimmed with gold, a reminder of wealth long out of orc reach. He was a politician, a leader though charisma, wisdom, and manipulation rather than strength of arm.  _Llane would have liked him, I think. I wonder if Varian does._  
  
Listening in on their conversation brought her little information, and she moved on. She found guards grumbling about their schedules for patrols, talking about how, soon enough, they wouldn’t be assigned to the ‘special prisoner’ down below.  _Doomhammer lives yet, I see,_  Garona thought, and then paused.  
  
“The Princess hasn’t been down to see him much,” one of the guards was saying. “Not since Himself disappeared, sending everyone into a tizzy.”  
  
“Shh, don’t even speak of it,” another guard hissed. “Y’can’t bring him up without upsetting the lot of ‘em. Asides, it ain’t right, a fine lady like Calia talkin’ to a dirty orc.”  
  
_I’d imagine, living in that cell, he’s fairly filthy,_  Garona thought, trying to summon up pleasure at that and failing.  _So where has Princess Calia been if she hasn’t been with Doomhammer… and why would she be with him in the first place?_  
  
Garona moved on, searching for private quarters. She did not find the princess, but she did find the Prince. Arthas, younger than his sister by nearly a decade, had a pair of dolls in his hands. As she observed, and listened to his soft murmurs, she realized one was meant to be an orc, the other a knight. The knight, it seemed, often won.  
  
_Why is he so quiet?_  Garona wondered.  _Is someone napping?_  
  
A moment later, as Arthas continued on his quiet crusade, Garona caught a voice, that of an older woman, speaking. Her words were indistinct, but that seemed not to matter to the young prince. He went pale under his tan and fell silent, curling against the wall.  
  
_What could that mean?_  Garona wondered. Arthas said nothing, did nothing, until the voice faded, and then he hurried off. Garona followed him, silent and curious. The young prince let himself into a room, and Garona slipped in after him, a silent, swift shadow, and looked around. Arthas had entered a suite, and he immediately went to one of the chairs, clambering up into it. There was a scattering of books and toys around the room, and the table was gouged and scratched, as though someone had hit it. He curled up, and seemed to wait.  
  
“Oh, Arthas, it’s alright,” came a voice. This was not the woman’s voice that has spoken earlier, and Arthas’ response was the exact opposite of the previous one. He uncurled and ran towards a young human woman, not quite eighteen summers old, and flung his arms around her. She lifted him briefly, hugging him in return.  
  
“Callie, Callie, I wasn’t making  _any_  noise, I  _promise_ ,” the boy insisted. “But I heard her--”  
  
“She can’t hurt you, not any more,” the girl said, stroking her fingers over Arthas’ hair. Princess Calia Menethil shared many features with her brother and father, her hair less golden than her brother’s, though far less pale than her father’s. Her eyes were not watery, nor were they sky-blue, but instead were icy blue and sharply focused. Garona could see she wore gloves, thin and fine and lacy, even indoors. The princess’ gaze darted around, as though seeking secrets from the shadows, and Garona avoided her gaze, moving past her. She left the siblings to talk while she went to Calia’s room.  
  
Here, she found musical instruments, a large harp, a violin in its case, a full piano laden with sheet music. Garona examined each curiously, and then looked away.  _Orcs prefer drums,_ she thought, and moved on. Calia’s floor was stone, and Garona saw a pair of slippers tucked under her large bed, the blankets neatly tucked in.  
  
_A fur or three wouldn’t kill you,_  Garona thought wryly, and then her eyes fell to the chest at the foot of Calia’s bed. She moved to it swiftly, and paused, listening. Calia was telling Arthas that it was time to study anyway, and Garona nodded to herself.  
  
She knelt by the chest, and withdrew wires from her sleeves. The lock could not resist her long, and there were books within, neatly stacked. Garona picked up one, glancing over it.  _Just a diary,_  she thought as she leafed through it absently.  _I wonder if--_  She spotted Doomhammer’s name, and hurriedly went back. As she read, her eyes widened.  
  
_Terenas wanted peace with the orcs? With Doomhammer? And he sent his daughter to chase it?_  She skimmed the words swiftly.  _Daval Prestor… that name doesn’t sound familiar, but--_ Garona blinked.  _Prestor and Calia were engaged. Then he disappeared, after she called on an archmage, Krasus Goldenmist. Wasn’t he a member of the Six? Khadgar might have mentioned him. This must be who the guards meant, but…_  Reading onward, she found Calia had a scheme of her own to free Doomhammer.  _She will die, or he will, she--_  
  
[I love him, and I cannot allow him to die here. Not after all that has been done. I won’t let Daval Prestor ruin Father’s plans! I know that Orgrim regrets his mistakes, and has only done what he could to help his people. Much of what he has told me has pained him to admit, and he has freed himself. He may even regret hurting Her. He seems to, at any rate. I cannot let him die. It must be soon, when Arthas is busy and Father and Uther work late into the night.  
  
I cannot fail.]  
  
Garona ground her jaw.  _I would bet he doesn’t regret it in the slightest._  She carefully put the diary back, and then locked the chest again. Swiftly, she departed, past childish voices and adult grumblings. Down and down into the dungeons. It was cold here, without the careful work done to keep Lordaeron’s icy Winter winds out. Garona noticed how few guards there were as she moved, and recalled what she’d seen in Calia’s diary.  _The princess was altering the guard schedule to avoid casualties, but Doomhammer is as subtle as a punch in the face._  
  
Did she want to let Doomhammer go? Didn’t he deserve death in the most humiliating way possible? She pushed these questions aside as she slipped down to observe him more closely. As she suspected, he was not clean. The clothing he wore was stained and greasy, his hair filthy. He was scarred in new ways, by burns. Garona frowned.  _She mentioned Prestor tortured him, but not her father. How could one human do this without help?_  
  
The former Warchief was muttering to himself, pacing and sitting on his narrow, hard bunk in turns. Sometimes, the muttering was punctuated by a name, Durotan or Gul'dan, and Garona's expression soured.  _If Doomhammer is going mad, he'll be even more useless than usual. It could be the pressure of the execution order that's sent him over the edge. There's something to be said for the certainty of death, though--_  
  
Doomhammer rubbed his hands over his face, and then let his head rest there, cradled. "I... regret what I did." Garona froze, wondering if he had heard her. He could not see her, certainly he was not looking at her. She wondered who he spoke to. "I regret that I used torture to get information from Garona. I regret that I was so vengeful as to leave her alive so that she could suffer. To your enemies, mercy."  
  
Her stomach rolled suddenly. So much of her life had been about anger and hate for warriors like Doomhammer. As he sighed, as though he had released a great burden, hers only weighed more heavily on her.  _To your enemies, mercy. If Doomhammer dies here, it is over. No one will ever lead the orcs, not with Durotan dead, his legacy destroyed. The humans will enslave the orcs forever until the last light dies. Doomhammer… must live._  
  
Gul’dan would have let Doomhammer die. Ner’zhul, certainly. Half of the other chieftains would not lift so much as a finger once Doomhammer had fallen… but she was not a chieftain, not a leader. She was an assassin, a blade in the darkness. She had, right now, a choice. Her gaze fell to Doomhammer, and her eyes narrowed.  
  
_I have made my choice._


	14. Fourteen

It took three days for all to fall into place. For Calia’s plans to bear fruit. She had managed to assign a window of minimal guards to the dungeons. Garona had obtained all of the keys she needed, including the key to the prison armory, where items seized from the prisoners were kept. She had made sure Doomhammer’s armour was there, and boots. He was no good to her if he lost toes to frostbite. She had found a path for him to take.  
  
She had moved swiftly, knocking out each guard and dragging them aside. She had found a door that would take Doomhammer to the lower city, and if he were clever, he would remain unseen until long after the humans found him missing.  _Relying on Doomhammer to be smart about anything is a risk._  She had to risk it. She had committed to it.  
  
She approached his cell. For a moment, she watched his restless, uneasy slumber, then unlocked the door silently and pushed it open slightly.  _Wake up, fool,_  she hissed mentally as he ignored it. She ground her teeth together, and put her hand on the door, opening it further, and focused all her will on not being so quiet. The door creaked, and he woke with a start.  
  
Orgrim Doomhammer, once member of the Thunderlord Clan, once warrior of the Blackrock Clan, once Warchief of the Horde, looked around, surprised and worried. “Calia?” he whispered, and Garona nearly struck her own forehead with her palm.  
  
 _And if I weren’t here to rescue you, you’d have gotten her killed just now,_  Garona thought sourly. She said nothing, and watched his uncertainty, the way he shifted with the shackles on. _He needs more._  She put the key to his bonds on the floor and slid it through the crack of the open door, contrasting it within the light. She was careful to keep on the other side of the door, observing as he stared at his freedom stupidly, then all but fell on the key.  
  
It took time for him to unlock his shackles, and Garona cursed his fumbling hesitation.  _I don’t see how you won a princess’ affections,_  she told him silently. Finally, freed, he kicked aside his shackles and rose, stretching. He looked around his cell, and Garona all but rolled her eyes.  
  
 _What_  now _, you great idiot?_  she demanded. In response, Doomhammer picked up a flask -- empty, fancy -- and a cloak, though from his expression, he wanted the blanket and cloak both. _Kindly stop being a whirlwind of cheap drama and go, before you are caught._  
  
He wrapped the cloak around him, and hurried out of his cell. Garona kept ahead of him in the shadows, guiding him to the armoury, and watched anxiously as he dressed, frowning at his weakness: his movements had been slow and stiff, his stride clipped even outside of his chains, and as he'd lifted the heavy pieces of the  _Doomplate_ , his arms shook from the effort.  _I suppose that he hasn’t had any time to exercise in a prison. Will he survive the journey? He had better, he can’t die after the effort I’ve put forth to keep him alive._  
  
She nudged the next door open, catching his attention, and he threw his cloak back on, and she was pleased to see how it concealed his form. If he kept his head down, he would make it out of Lordaeron, but she would need to make sure of it. She led him, step by step, to the door to his freedom.  
  
 _Go, hurry,_  Garona thought insistently. Doomhammer hesitated at the door, and then placed his hand over his heart.  _I don’t care what idiot sentimental thing you’re doing, I will kick you out into the street if I must!_  
  
As though prompted by her silent anger, Doomhammer looked around and she froze in place. When he seemed satisfied, he stepped into the street, and she closed the door behind them both. She shadowed him as long as she could, assuring herself that he was free, and then returned to the dungeon to observe the oncoming storm.  
  
It was with no small amount of satisfaction that she watched Calia Menethil, confused, elated, and afraid, clutch at the blanket Doomhammer had left behind, and then hurry off to report his disappearance to the guards.  
  
~ * ~  
  
“And he never knew, and you never told him,” Thrall said, shaking his head in disbelief. “And the human princess… I wouldn’t have needed to attack Durnholde if I’d known there was someone looking out for the orcs in the capital.”  
  
“Things may have been very different if she had remained her father’s heir, or they may not have been,” Garona warned. “The orcs needed you regardless. No amount of politicking could have roused them from the Lethargy. In any case, things would have been much worse if you’d been contending with plagued grain and lurking necromancers.”  
  
“True,” Thrall said, and sighed. “Orgrim never said… I assumed he hated humans. He avoided speaking of them as often as possible, and he saw them as enemies, but unless Calia was wrong, and he didn’t love her in return…”  
  
“She was sure that he did, and she didn’t seem deluded, just young,” Garona replied. “Doomhammer likely hated humans, plural, but not a specific human, singular. You can dislike groups but like individuals. It’s not as though you can ask him now.”  
  
“I could understand that,” Thrall said. “It’s hard not to despise humans as a whole, not after Durnholde and seeing the camps. So many of the guards were cruel people, those who had lost much and decided to take it out on those who couldn’t fight back. Regardless of what Terenas or Calia wanted,  _those_  people would have happily seen us enslaved forever, and Blackmoore…” Thrall looked away. “I loved Tari a great deal. Losing her was… almost the end of me. She deserved better! Sergeant was a good man, considering what he was tasked to. Even the Foxtons weren’t so bad, though they were so meek.”  
  
“You’ve taken to Jaina Proudmoore, as well, unless you’re inviting her to everything out of courtesy?” Garona noted, raising her eyebrows. Rather than smile, as he often did when the human sorceress was mentioned, Thrall frowned.  
  
“Before we knew each other, it was hard to see her,” Thrall confessed. “She was like a ghost of someone who’d forgotten me. When we were enemies, knowing that she was just ahead, that I was chasing her and trying to beat her to the Oracle, it made me edgy. I couldn’t think clearly. If I had been, perhaps…”  
  
“Hellscream is the person who is an even bigger idiot than Doomhammer,” Garona noted, and held up a hand when he opened his mouth to object. “I know you sent him to Ashenvale. I watched you do it, but he made his own fate. What made you change your mind about Jaina?”  
  
“All those times she turned me into an oversized icicle,” Thrall said ruefully, and now he smiled in memory. “Jaina and Tari may have some superficial similarities, but they're very different people. Jaina is… stubborn, determined. Ambitious. I never had the chance to find out what Tari wanted from life, but with Jaina I’ve never been able to forget. She opens her mouth and all kinds of technical information spills out. I don’t understand most of it.”  
  
“She may explain it to you if you ask,” Garona noted. “It’s good that you admire her, but do you think clearly now?”  
  
“I do,” Thrall said firmly. “I trust Jaina completely, and I believe she trusts me. We were forced to work together at first, and now we choose to. She’s a good ally and friend.”  
  
“She is, from what I’ve seen of the two of you,” Garona said. “And I'm sure you've noticed me watching.”  
  
“I did,” Thrall said. “It took time to realize who you were, and then I wasn’t concerned. The spirits knew you weren’t a danger to me.”  
  
“It’s funny that you trusted me, of all people, more swiftly than you trusted Jaina,” Garona said dryly, and Thrall grinned at her.  
  
“I remember the day we first met in truth,” he said, and Garona looked away. “Will you tell me about it from your perspective? I only know my own.”  
  
“Alright,” Garona said. “I also remember the day I became Akia very well.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
If she ever saw snow again, it would be too soon.  
  
Garona stumbled through the land of icy white, using her arms to protect her face from the driving wind. The shadows between were cold, and often drove wind between the untucked places in her armour, but it was not a wet cold, the way this storm was. Alterac was no supernatural force, its misery entirely natural, which was of little comfort as she made her meandering way through the mountains.  
  
 _If I ever see him again, I’m going to kick Shomni Slewfoot in the behind so hard he’ll have to breathe his own gases!_  Garona snarled, and a noise escaped her lips, carried by the wind. It was hard to concentrate on anything but walking in a more or less straight line, never mind her aura of silence. She had found, over the years, she was better at controlling it.  
  
 _It’s not as if anyone can hear me swear here,_  Garona thought, and let loose a string of curses in a puff of air.  _I must be insane, surely it’s a lie or a rumour._  
  
It was hope that had brought her to the icy wilds of Alterac in the depths of winter, hope and a rumour that orcs had been seen this far north,  _not_  safe in the camps, thank you, and not the Warsong, wild and wandering and evading the Silver Hand’s best patrols.  
  
 _Durotan and Draka were not far from Alterac when they died, this might be where the clan is,_  Garona thought, gritting her teeth against more curses.  _If they’ve survived, Doomhammer might have known of it. They might be able to help._  
  
It had been eighteen years since she had found the Shadow Wolf chieftain’s body and that of his mate. Fourteen, since she had freed Doomhammer from Lordaeron. No progress had been made towards freeing the orcs, and now the mages of Dalaran were sniffing about, sending apprentices and seeking permission to test.  _I don’t know if they can figure out the secret behind the Lethargy, but the orcs shouldn’t be test subjects along with prisoners and slaves. Doomhammer needs to do something if he intends to save his people._  
  
It was possible that she had been wrong, that, granted freedom, Orgrim Doomhammer would flee and hide in the forests of Lordaeron like a coward. That he would hide in a warmer climate -- there had been a rumour of another orc warrior spotted near Hearthglen, but no one had claimed it was Doomhammer, so it was some other, random nobody that had escaped from the camps.  
  
 _Stupid, useless Doomhammer,_  Garona thought, and let loose another string of curses as one of her feet broke through the crust of snow, throwing her forward. She sucked in a breath to begin again, and found herself silenced with but a word.  
  
“Hello?” called a voice in Common. It was male, deep, and came from a nearby copse of trees. “Are you alright?”  
  
Garona froze.  _Could that be the Silver Hand? Why would they send a paladin up here, in this mess?_  
  
The voice cursed softly, and to her surprise, the next words came in Orcish. “Sorry, I forgot. Are you lost? Do you need help?” The words were a tad clumsy, more uncertain than his use of the human tongue.  
  
 _Who is this?!_  Garona wondered frantically, struggling to stand as a crashing noise brought the speaker into view, and suddenly, she could think of nothing.  
  
The speaker was an orc, large and bright green, the colour of his skin contrasting sharply with his clothing. He was bundled up in blue-trimmed white leather, from the trousers tucked into massive leather boots to the tips of his mittens. In one hand, he carried a hunting spear, using it to keep his balance as he crunched along on huge, wide netted feet.  
  
“W-w-what are you wearing?” Garona chattered, cursing her weakness. Not so well dressed, her trousers were soaked clean through, and while she was usually more resistant to cold, Alterac had frozen her to the bone, ignoring her natural defenses. “On your f-f-f-feet?”  
  
“These?” the orc asked, and smiled. Garona felt her stomach turn to water. She recognized that smile, and it was like seeing a ghost. “They’re snowshoes. You’re not of the clan.” He crunched forward, and offered her a hand up. She stared at the gloved fingers briefly, and then placed one cold hand in his. He hefted her easily, demonstrating muscle hidden by a thick coat, and set her on the tips of his snowshoes to allow her to balance.  
  
“Clan… which clan?” Garona chattered. “Warsong?”  
  
The orc laughed. “Oh, no. This is Frostwolf land.”  
  
 _Frostwolves…_  Garona thought, the last pieces clicking into place. “Who are you?”  
  
“My name is Thrall,” he replied. Garona made a soft noise. “It’s a human word, never mind what it means. Who are you?”  
  
 _There’s no possibility that he doesn’t know it means slave,_  Garona thought, even as memory niggled at her. She had been chasing rumours for so long, it was hard to remember them all. “I am… Akia.”  
  
“Akia of which clan?” Thrall asked, his voice teasing. “Not the Warsong, surely.”  
  
“I have no clan,” Garona said bluntly. “You are young, Thrall of the Frostwolves, so you may not know what halforcen are, but I am one.”  
  
Abruptly, as though a veil had fallen over him, Thrall’s warm smile disappeared. “No. I know what halforcen are, and where they come from. Why are you here?”  
  
“I had heard there were orcs in the mountains,” Garona said. “I… I…” She sneezed, and she felt herself flush with sheer embarrassment.  _I’ve never been sick when it wasn’t from infection! What is this?!_  
  
At once, Thrall’s sadness and anger were gone, and he took her elbow, steadying her. “Well, you’ve found them, Akia Halforcen,” he said gently. “You should come with me back to the village. You’ll freeze out here on your own. I have an idea.”  
  
Garona nodded slowly, and Thrall guided her around him, until she was standing behind him, still on his snowshoes. He guided her arms around his waist. She wanted to run, to flee far away from this warm-hearted stranger with a familiar face, but let him secure her.  
  
“I’ll walk, and you walk with me,” Thrall said. “It will be tricky, but I have my spear for balance… I’ll bring in no prey tonight, but surely rescuing a stranger in need is much more important than that. It wasn’t so long ago I was in your position. I only came to know the home of my parents when I was nearly grown. They… died, before I could know them.”  
  
 _Do you always spill your secrets so easily to a complete stranger?_  Garona wondered, though she made a noise to indicate her assent. “Who were they? Your parents?”  
  
“I am told that they were the chieftain of this clan and his wife,” Thrall said, using the human word, then corrected, “Mate. Durotan and Draka of the Frostwolves.”  
  
“Thrall, son of Durotan,” Garona murmured unthinkingly. Thrall pulled off a mitten and put two fingers to his lips, whistling sharply. Garona noted that there were scars over his knuckles, healed and rebroken and healed again, and her eyes widened.  
  
“Now that we’re both introduced… Snowsong! Come along!” A vision in white crashed through the underbrush, and Thrall bent to greet a large, white wolf, her tail waving happily. “Here, let her smell you.”  
  
Freeing an arm from Thrall’s waist, she let the wolf sniff her fingers, and then she sneezed. “Is that bad?”  
  
“No, she just thinks you smell odd,” Thrall said, straightening and replacing the mitten. “It’s because she’s not of the clan,” Thrall told the wolf. “Be nice, this is Akia. Akia, this is Snowsong, my spirit companion.”  
  
“...you have a spirit companion?” Garona asked in disbelief. Thrall secured her arm and began to walk in a wide circle, taking them towards the village. “And you speak to her?”  
  
“Yes, all of us do,” Thrall said, and the cadence of his voice changed to that of a storyteller. “Once, long before I was born, the Frostwolves were sent into exile by an evil warlock named Gul’dan.” He paused, and his voice changed again. “A warlock is a kind of mage, but they--”  
  
“I know what a warlock is, and I know of Gul’dan,” Garona interrupted, and then flushed. “Sorry.”  
  
“I get distracted easily, Drek’thar always says so,” Thrall said, and Garona’s heart lept.  
  
 _Drek’thar lives!_  she thought wonderingly, nearly missing Thrall’s next words.  _Incredible!_  
  
“--was a long journey, but Drek’thar led them north. The elemental spirits of Azeroth spoke to him, guiding them until they reached Alterac Valley. It was cold here, like it is now, and they feared they would freeze. Drek’thar begged the spirits for a miracle, for some sign to show that they were meant to survive, and the spirits sent the frost wolves. Each one took a member of the clan under paw, and the bond between orc and wolf was complete. Now, with each child that is born, there is a frostwolf just waiting for them. Snowsong and I met only two years ago, but it’s as though we’ve known each other forever. I love her, and she loves me.” Snowsong sneezed on him and hurried ahead. “Well, mostly.”  
  
Garona nearly laughed. “The spirits forsook the orcs a long time ago. Their leaders were fools and monsters.”  
  
“Perhaps that was on Draenor, the ancient land of our people, but not here. Here, the spirits are happy to speak to us, or at least, to Drek’thar and his apprentices,” Thrall replied. “I’m one of them, actually.”  
  
“You’re a  _shaman_?!” Garona exclaimed, and nearly overset the pair of them. Thrall made soothing noises, and balanced with his spear.  
  
“Yes, I am… is that a problem?” Thrall asked, and resumed his slow, plodding pace. The wind still blew, but Thrall’s body protected her from much of the cold. “I was told there were shamans on Draenor, once.”  
  
“There were, but the spirits abandoned the orcs because of the warlocks,” Garona said. “From what I understand. Your people believed that they were better off without them.”  
  
“Our people,” Thrall said, and Garona blinked.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Our people,” Thrall repeated. Garona shook her head.  
  
“I’m halforcen--”  
  
“If you are any part orcen, that’s still orc,” Thrall said, halting her with warmth and earnestness. “Which makes them your people too. Our people have shamans once more.”  
  
Garona fell silent, and Thrall did not press her, instead walking with a steady rhythm, pausing every dozen steps to knock snow from his snowshoes, and Garona moved with him. His words rolled around in her mind.  
  
 _Durotan’s son lived, and he is a shaman. The Shadow Wolves are now Frostwolves, and they have a village. He bears a human name, the name of slave, and he did not grow up knowing of his people. He speaks as humans do, and learned Orcish later. Drek’thar is his teacher. He has a wolf._  She glanced down, peering at Snowsong, who raced ahead and then returned, whining in impatience.  _A wolf as young as he is._  
  
She felt Thrall stop, and peered around him. “What is it?”  
  
“This is the village,” Thrall said, and Garona blinked. There was a fall of rocks, covered in snow, veiled in trees. She could see nothing past them.  
  
“Are you certain?” Garona asked. “It seems… very small.”  
  
“It’s hidden,” Thrall said. “I wouldn’t have known it was here if I hadn’t been told to look for it. You’ll need to move.”  
  
Garona nodded, and stepped off of his snowshoes, and sank to her knees in snow. She winced, but noticed Thrall was taking his snowshoes off, and he sank to his calves.  _It’s going to irritate me that he’s so much taller than I am, I just know it,_  she thought ruefully. Thrall tossed his snowshoes past the rocks, and then turned to her.  
  
“Up you go,” Thrall said, and offered his hand. Garona nodded, and let him boost her up to the rocks, and she was carefully as she hopped over to collect the snowshoes and stand clear. The snow here was far more shallow, as though it had been packed down firmly and persistently. Thrall heaved himself over the rocks, and smiled. “Thank you.” He nodded forward, and Garona turned. She gasped softly.  
  
Invisible from where they’d been just moments before, Frostwolf Village was vast, filling Alterac Valley. She could see huts, well-guarded from the wind and snow by trees, clustered together in threes and fours. To the left, she could see a great hut, made from hides and wood, standing apart from the others.  
  
“That’s where Drek’thar lives,” Thrall confided, taking the snowshoes from her. Snowsong sprinted past them, running into the village, barking loudly. A half-dozen barks answered hers, and one rather annoyed bark-whine. “That’s Wise Ear, Drek’thar’s companion. She’s old, like Drek’thar, and just as grumpy.” He kept his voice down.  
  
“Why are you whispering?” Garona asked, voice equally soft.  
  
“Because if he hears me, he’ll hit me with his stick.” Thrall grinned sheepishly. “He thinks I need to respect my elders.”  
  
“I always respect elders with sticks,” Garona said as they began to walk towards the village. Thrall chuckled. “Where are we going?”  
  
“My own hut. I live alone, but near to Drek’thar, so he can yell for me, and Palkar doesn’t need to run far to find me,” Thrall replied. “Palkar is Drek’thar’s assistant. He does chores. Well, Palkar and Stormpaw. They’re only eleven winters old.”  
  
“So young,” Garona murmured. “Aren’t you going to ask them if I can stay?”  
  
“I’ll ask the spirits what they think, but  _I_  want you to stay, Akia,” Thrall said earnestly. “You shouldn’t have to be clanless, and the Frostwolves are friendly with strangers. Sometimes they have visitors, like my father’s old friend, Orgrim Doomhammer. I suppose you know of him too?”  
  
 _Well, now I know that Doomhammer didn’t die in a ditch somewhere,_  Garona thought uneasily. “Yes, is he here now?”  
  
“No, he’s visiting with the Warsong, he hates the winter here,” Thrall said, and shrugged. “It’s cold, but it’s cozy, I promise. You just need to dress for it. Come! I’ll show you where I live.”  
  
Thrall broke into a run, and Garona remained still for a moment, watching him.  _He’s like an eager puppy himself,_  she thought.  _He’s going to get himself killed._  The thought was sobering. _Durotan’s son, innocent as a child, just letting anyone into his home. If I worked for Gul’dan…_  She reached back, touching numb fingers to her snow-crusted hair.  _No, not again. Never again. I lost Durotan, I betrayed Llane… I couldn’t save my mother. I won’t lose this child. I won’t lose Thrall._  
  
“Akia?” Thrall called. Garona looked up, and she melted a little. Thrall’s eyes were bright blue, the same shade as the Frostwolf blue, and as eager as a pup. “Are you coming?”  
  
“I am,” Garona replied, and began to walk, wincing as her clothes crunched and crackled. “I’m coming.”  
  
~ * ~  
  
“I’m not a pup,” Thrall grumbled. “I’m an adult.”  
  
“Of course you are,” Garona said dryly. “And a fierce warrior besides.”  
  
Thrall glared at her, and then smiled as she remained unintimidated. “So you stayed.”  
  
“I considered leaving once I had a change of clothes, but I’d already made up my mind,” Garona said, looking down at her hands. “You had Doomhammer as a mentor, Drek’thar, Hellscream, Snowsong… but I thought that, if I couldn’t teach you, I could watch your back.”  
  
“Drek’thar is too old for guard duty,” Thrall agreed. “Orgrim died before Durnholde, Grom in Ashenvale. Snowsong is wonderful, but not one of my people.” She looked up at him, and he smiled. “Our people.”  
  
“You’re sentimental,” Garona said, though there was little bite to it. “When did you figure it out? Who little Akia of the Frostwolves was?”  
  
“It took time,” Thrall said. “The spirits were adamant that you stay. I would watch you, sometimes. They way you interacted with others. It was little things. I think if you’d have left, I might never have known. Then, when you disappeared after Hyjal, I was certain.”  
  
“After Hyjal, things were going to change,” Garona replied softly. “You weren’t leading an army of misfits any more, you were going to be guiding a people. You weren’t content with clans and villages, you wanted a city. Everyone was of your clan, of your people. That was going to make you enemies.”  
  
“I’ve already heard the grumblings,” Thrall said, and his back straightened. “I don’t regret it. I don’t think clans are worthless, as some claim, but it isn’t only the great clans deserve attention. The Horde should be one great clan, one great family, to all--” He stopped as Garona shook her head. “You don’t approve.”  
  
“Of course I approve,” Garona said. “You welcomed me when no one else did. You welcome others, other halforcen, people whose clans abandoned them, people who can’t even remember their clan names. They can say ‘I am of the Horde’, and it is a thing of pride, not of convenience. That’s why you need to be protected. It’s just common sense.”  
  
 _You care,_  Thrall thought warmly.  _You deny it but you do._  “Thinking back, what do you regret?”  
  
Garona was quiet for a moment. “I regret I didn’t try to run as a child. Your parents would have helped me, sheltered me. They were kind, even when they were a little suspicious of me. I don’t regret killing Telkar Doomhammer. He was an idiot and a blowhard, and he had no doubts about beating and killing a child. I do regret that I helped Gul’dan. He was not all-powerful, but I helped give the impression he was. None of the other assassins were as talented as I was. I regret that I never helped Medivh more. I know he’s free now, but if I had just done more…” She sighed, and shook her head. “I regret killing Llane, but more, I regret that I ever believed what Gul’dan told me.”  
  
Thrall reached out, offering a hand. Garona looked at it, and put her hand in his. He squeezed it gently. “He did all he could to convince you that he was trustworthy. That your recollections, your judgements, were wrong.”  
  
“He did,” Garona said. “It’s possible Gul’dan was right, that the humans would never have let the orcs live in peace, not after all we’d done… but that was when Blackhand and Gul’dan were leading the Horde. Not Doomhammer. He could have led them better. There could have been peace.”  
  
“Do you regret letting Orgrim live?” Thrall asked, and watched her expression closely. Emotion flickered over her face as she considered. He didn’t hurry her, instead dropping his other hand down. Snowsong licked over his knuckles, the ones scarred from his years in the arena, and nuzzled his palm as he turned his hand over.  
  
“No,” Garona said finally. “I will never like him, alive or dead, and I still resent him for everything he’s done, but you needed him as a mentor and a friend. I was wrong that he would lead your --  _our_  -- people to freedom, but I was right that he was needed. That’s how the world is, sometimes. There are people that one can hate but who are still necessary for it to function.”  
  
“That’s wise,” Thrall said, nodding. “We never stop learning. Do you still wish for a place within the Horde? That’s how all of this began. I’ve learned more than I ever hoped for, but I still don’t have an answer to that question.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Garona asked sharply. Thrall smiled encouragingly.  
  
“I’m not a naive child,” Thrall said gently. “I’m not a pup as green as new trees. I know that things won’t be as simple and easy as ‘we’ve defeated the demons, and now we live happily ever after’.” Thrall caught her gaze, and she stared at him, grey eyes to blue. “If we can get on top of situations, though, of the grumbling and the Shadow Council agents you see in every shadow, we can grow as a people. That bright future you want is right there, right around the corner. We just have to work for it.”  
  
Garona opened her mouth, and Thrall watched her. He could see the denial on her face, but finally she sighed. “I want to believe that. I will never be publicly accepted. Not by the orcs, not by your human allies.”  
  
“You can disguise yourself. Eitrigg is already proposing that I have an elite bodyguard. I’ve seen the helmets. They’ll hide you for now, and I’ll introduce you to the others. The orcs might not accept you at first, but Cairne remembers Akia, and so does Vol’jin. They can help convince the others. I want you with me to help protect the Horde.”  
  
“It’s a good thing Eitrigg is suggesting such, I’m not a warrior, I’m an assassin,” Garona said, though she couldn’t look away. “They will protect you from the enemies that come at you from the front and sides, I will protect you from the shadows.”  
  
“That sounds like you want to be my spymaster, then,” Thrall said lightly. She eyed him and he chuckled. “You wanted to serve the Horde.”  
  
“You’re trickier than you let on,” Garona grumbled. “I’ll warn you, I’ve never been agreeable in my life. Anyone will tell you.”  
  
“I think I can manage without you being perfectly agreeable,” Thrall said, and looked up. Garona followed his gaze as the wind picked up, throwing dust into the air. “The Razor Winds are coming.”  
  
“The walls aren’t complete yet, are they?” Garona asked. Thrall stood, and shook his head. The wind tugged at his warrior braids, and Garona’s single, thick one, worn in a style he now knew she’d picked up from her time living amongst humans in Stormwind.  
  
“No, but we can get them finished if we hurry,” Thrall said. He offered Garona his hand, and this time she ignored it, rising stiffly on her own. He hid a chuckle. “I’m expecting a message too. We can read it together.”  
  
“And you can send a better messenger than a warrior,” Garona pointed out. “Let’s go.”  
  
Thrall inhaled carefully, taking in wind and not dust.  _The winds of change blow strongly. Something comes._


	15. Epilogue: Late Autumn, Year 26

The wind blew through the open courtyard of Theramore Keep, carrying the drifting smoke and the scent of spilled blood. Distantly, there was a sound of booming cannons as ships still exchanged fire. Word had not passed to every ship in the Tiran Fleet, so some still fought. Some still believed their leader, their Grand Admiral Daelin Proudmoore, fought on against the orcish Horde he had found in Kalimdor.  
  
Thrall stood off to one side, watching as his ally, his friend, Jaina Proudmoore, cradled her father’s broken, bleeding body in her arms. She gave little heed to the fact she was soaking wet, between blood and salt water and her own tears. Her hood had been torn loose, and even her blonde hair seemed dull.  
  
Rexxar stood across from Thrall, eyes fixed on the pistol by the human admiral’s trembling right hand, ready to strike him again if he attempted to attack. Thrall shook his head slightly, and Rexxar’s chin set stubbornly. At his side stood Rokhan, the troll shadowhunter. His keen eyes were not observing Daelin Proudmoore as a potential threat, but instead watching for the inevitable severing of soul from body in death. Shadow Hunters, Thrall had been taught, were as much responsible for the passage of the dead into the arms of Bwonsamedi, the troll god of death, as the priests and shamans.  
  
Cairne Bloodhoof and Chen Stormstout stood together. Both seemed deeply regretful and sorrowful, watching Jaina as she shook with grief. Thrall could pick out Garona easily amongst his honour guard, and what he could see of her face, concealed by a black and gold helmet, betrayed no emotion.  
  
 _We spoke of regrets before this started,_  Thrall thought, even as his heart clenched.  _I regret it came to this, but not that my people are safe. I regret… Jaina should not have had to pick a side._  
  
Daelin Proudmoore shuddered as the last of his life force left him, and took with it the final words he would ever hear. “Da, why?” Jaina whispered, her voice hoarse. “Why didn’t you listen to me?” He did not, could not answer.  
  
“Jaina…” Thrall said softly. She didn’t seem to hear, shaking with grief. “Sorceress,” he began again, firming his voice around the formality. “The Horde will leave Theramore now, leaving you to clean up your dead, to rebuild. We will never return again. You need never fear invasion. It’s over.”  
  
Jaina said nothing, simply fussing with her father, trying to grant him some final dignity. Silently, Thrall turned and left, and one by one, his people trailed after him.  
  
 _I wish I could comfort her,_  Thrall thought.  _She consoled me after Grom died, for all they were enemies… but Grom died to a demon. Her father died because of us._  
  
“Warchief,” Garona said, and Thrall’s shoulders stiffened. He knew what was coming. “Do you plan on leaving the Tirans alive?”  
  
“Of course,” Thrall snapped.  _Garona isn’t wrong, she is very unpleasant at times._  “They have lost. It benefits us little to act the barbarians they believe we are.”  
  
“His lieutenants will take up the war banners, and strike again,” Garona warned. “They will resent Lady Proudmoore’s actions and they will see her as a traitor.”  
  
“I will not pursue another war,” Thrall growled. “Not while the blood is still wet. Is it not enough that this war has destroyed the fragile trust we once had? We’ll never… never live together. We must go home and repair what we can.”  
  
“Very well, Warchief,” Garona replied evenly. Thrall ground his teeth. “Why didn’t you allow me to assassinate Daelin Proudmoore?”  
  
It had occurred to him. It had occurred to him that every enemy he had would learn to fear him if he had the greatest assassin who had ever lived at his beck and call. Even as he acknowledged the possibility, he had also understood where that would lead. “I would have regretted it more than the war,” Thrall said finally.  
  
Garona said nothing, and Thrall looked over his shoulder. Jaina closed her father’s eyes, and set his hat over his chest. Thrall’s heart clenched, but he turned back, continuing to walk away.  
  
~ * ~  
  
Jaina Proudmoore stood at the end of the dock. It was raining, as it did three days in ten, and she had welcomed it. There was so much blood to be washed from Theramore’s streets. Crews worked, even in the driving rain, to haul the shells of ships away to be broken down and dried out for firewood.  
  
 _There’s no point in creating even more useless waste,_  she thought. There was a ship in front of her, this one whole, flying a Theran flag at half-mast. A casket hung over one side, draped with a Tiran flag. Sheltered by temporary awnings, a handful of pipers played a dirge.  
  
 _”Every body must be burned,” she insisted. “The Scourge necromancers can bring back the infected or the pure with ease. It’s possible the Legion has not fully retreated from Kalimdor, even after their defeat.”  
  
“You have little need to worry,” Thrall said, his voice warm and reassuring. “We orcs have always burned our dead. This will be of little hardship.”  
  
“The tauren do the same,” said Cairne, his deep voice steady. “Though perhaps slightly differently than the orcs.”  
  
“M’people won’ like it,” Vol’jin said. “We be havin’ our own traditions… but it be dangerous ta follow tradition when tha Scourge be callin’. We be doin’ it.”_  
  
Jaina nodded, and the ropes lowered as the dirge played.  _I know what I said, but it’s tradition. From the Ocean Our Mother we are born, and to Her we return. So it has been for every Proudmoore since Rhiannon herself, and so it must always be._  
  
Jaina’s eyes hurt, and were it not for the rain, her face would be dry. She had cried for hours on and off for the past three days. Her chest still felt as though it would burst from grief and anger. Over and over, she had turned the events of the past week over in her mind and found nothing more she could have done.  _Just like with Arthas and Stratholme… no one believes me when they need to… no one but Thrall._  
  
The orc Warchief’s name warmed her briefly, and then she was subsumed with guilt.  _I miss him so much, but I can’t contact him, not… now. Not with all of this._  His words as he had departed had chilled her, reassuring her and leaving her cold all at once.  _What we have is so fragile, stretched beyond reckoning. He won’t want to see me, not for some time. I need to rebuild._  
  
Jaina brought a hand up, saluting the water, and then turned, marching back from the docks. Under her feet, she could feel the rune of protection she’d traced out carefully before a single home had been built, swirling around the tower she had built at Theramore’s heart, its anchor and its origin. It had served to protect many of the Theran homes, but it had not prevented the invasion.  
  
“It’s not strong enough,” Jaina said to the figure following her. “I need to be able to control it directly. If I use a spell, I can tie it to myself, to my own life force--”  
  
“I don’t think that’s wise, Lady Proudmoore,” said the figure. Jaina turned and craned her neck up. Chen Stormstout, the Pandaren Brewmaster who had lingered when the Horde had gone, looked down at her, and held out an umbrella to protect her from the rain. “It’s a dangerous measure, and if something should happen to either you or the protections, Theramore would be vulnerable. You could die.”  
  
“My father was willing to give his life for his people,” Jaina said, her voice only quavering slightly. “I must be willing to give my life for mine.”  
  
“I still don’t believe you should do it,” Chen said, his deep voice pitched with concern. Jaina looked away. He placed one great hand on her shoulder, and she glanced at it. “But I will stay for now, until you are done.”  
  
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Jaina said, smiling. “Though you’ll be gone with the tide, won’t you?”  
  
“I do wander,” Chen agreed, and his muzzle crinkled into a smile. “But if I do leave, we will see each other again, and perhaps one day, you will find Pandaria and visit me.”  
  
“I’d like that,” Jaina said. She looked over her shoulder, peering through the rain.  _Is someone watching me?_  She shrugged, and turned around, letting Chen escort her back to her tower.  
  
In the shadows, someone moved, and turned away.  
  
End


End file.
